


Truth Universally Acknowledged

by glasscannon, Jezunya



Series: TUA 'Verse [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, Alternate Universe - Pride & Prejudice fusion, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Bisexual Characters, Canon-Typical Violence, Demisexual Characters, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarves in the Shire, F/M, Fluff, Gay Characters, Hobbit Culture & Customs, M/M, Multiple Points of View, Nobody in this fic is actually straight, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Rated T for frisky hobbits, Romance, Slow Burn, Summer RomCom in the Shire, Timeline Shenanigans, canon Middle Earth setting, courting, pansexual characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-06-09 16:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 53,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6913927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasscannon/pseuds/glasscannon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jezunya/pseuds/Jezunya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single dwarf in possession of good fortune must be in want of their One.”</i> <br/>–Dwarven proverb</p><p>Life in the Shire is turned upside down when a party of dwarves from the distant eastern kingdom of Erebor come to stay for the summer.</p><p>What should be a simple, ceremonial quest for Prince Kíli to find his One grows quite a bit more complicated when he realizes that his other half is not only not a dwarf, but one of his family’s oldest sworn enemies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

* * *

 

 

* * *

  

The High Council meeting has barely broken for lunch when Kíli comes bursting through the door from the hallway, making Dori and Dwalin both startle and reach for their weapons as they half-rise from their seats on either side of the entrance. Bofur is barely a step behind Kíli, and he shoots Thorin an apologetic look from over the young prince’s shoulder. “It’s _moving!_ ” Kíli wails without preamble, “I can _feel_ it, it’s getting further and further away, I—”

“ _Kíli_ ,” Dís cuts him off, leveling a disapproving frown at the youngest member of the royal family even as she lays her stack of papers back on the tabletop and rises from her seat to meet him. “Breathe, then talk,” she orders.

Kíli sucks in a deep breath, dark eyes darting around the room at the few councilors still filing out, and then he leans in to hiss, “Amad, it’s the _Longing!_ ”

Thorin sighs, feeling tension claw its way up across his shoulders, and tries to concentrate on gathering up the documents before him and putting them in some semblance of order – most urgent at the top, important but non-urgent next, then…

“You alright there, laddie?” Balin asks softly from beside Thorin, and it’s only when Thorin glances over at him that he realizes how hard he’s glaring, squinting around the headache that has blossomed behind his eyes.

“Fine,” Thorin grunts, and looks back down at his work. Balin pats him gently on the shoulder before gathering up his own notes from the briefing and making for the door.

“We’ll see you for tea tonight, won’t we, Dís?” Balin asks, his voice far too cheery for the throbbing that’s started up in Thorin’s temples. He barely hears Dís’s affirmative response, too busy glowering after Balin, wishing he could make so easy an escape. By the sour look Dori shoots his husband when Balin squeezes his shoulder on his way out the door, it’s a sentiment the old guard no doubt shares.

It’s not that Thorin has any qualms about the issues involved in raising young dwarves—

“Now,” Dís says, visibly steeling herself before turning her attention to her son once more. Behind them, Bofur surreptitiously pulls the door closed against any prying ears out in the corridor, before slipping into one of the chairs along the wall near Dwalin and Dori. Unlike the various tradesmen and advisors who form the High Council – unlike bloody _Balin_ – the Royal Guards are, by necessity, often privy to even the most private discussions of Thorin’s family. “What about your Longing, Kíli?”

Thorin grimaces, squeezing his eyes shut as the light from the lanterns begins to feel as though it’s stabbing right through his skull. He pulls in a long breath through his nose, lets it out through his mouth, tries to clear his mind.

“It keeps getting further and further away!” Kíli answers, repeating his earlier words, his voice rising high in anguish.

He has absolutely nothing against helping to raise his nephews, especially after Víli—

“Did it… come near, before that?” Dís asks carefully, measuring her words. Thorin can hear the strain behind her reticence, the old pain diligently hidden from her children.

“No…” Kíli pushes his hands back through his hair, turning to pace agitatedly around the room. “Never any nearer than it has before. It’s just… before it’s always been small movements, but now, suddenly, it’s— it’s—”

Thorin’s chest tightens impossibly, pain squeezing at his ribs. He just has to keep breathing. The pressure on his lungs isn’t real. Just breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth, slow and even, mind blank and clear and calm...

“It’s so far away,” Kíli goes on, his voice growing small and frightened. “And getting further… Like… like it might… disappear…”

With a grunt he desperately tries to muffle, Thorin collapses backwards into his chair, one hand clutching at his forehead while the other waves Dwalin away, knowing both instinctually and from the tell-tale scrape of chair legs that the guard has risen to try to assist him. He’s not the one who needs help – he should be standing beside his sister, supporting her through what must be more difficult for her than for him, yet he can do nothing but sit here.

He can feel Dís glance briefly over at him from across the room, gauging his reaction, worrying more for him than for herself, before she turns back to her son. “Soulmates move, mim’ibinê. It’s what they do,” she tells Kíli, voice gentle but firm. “Whoever they are, they have their own life to lead, and eventually that life will lead them to you, Mahal willing.”

Thorin grits his teeth, the pain spreading down from his skull, out across his chest, pulsing in time with his heart, blinding white and enraged.

“What matters is that you can still feel them out there, wherever they are.” There’s the slightest hitch in his sister’s voice now, a quick in-drawing of breath, before she pushes on. “It is only if you stop feeling them entirely that you have any cause to worry.”

He has no reservations about raising Fíli and Kíli – none at all besides being in too much damned pain to be of any use to anyone.

“But what if it _does?_ ” Kíli insists, his voice rising to an anxious wail again. “Shouldn’t I go after them—?!”

“You have another two decades before you come of age, Kíli,” Thorin snaps out, his voice startling himself along with everyone else in the room, sounding harsh and horrible to his own ears, brittle and sharp.

“I’m already older than you were when you became king!” his nephew shoots back petulantly, turning to look back at Thorin, and he can feel a true snarl of a reply forming on his tongue before his sister cuts in again.

“And you should pray every day that circumstances never require you to take on such responsibility at so young an age!” Dís promptly responds, frowning at Kíli, who instantly deflates. “You will seek your One in your seventy-fifth year as tradition dictates, and not a day sooner.”

“Yes, Amad,” he murmurs, dropping his head forward. Then, glancing briefly back at Thorin, adds, “I’m sorry, Am’dad.”

Thorin sighs again, nodding and closing his eyes against the light. “I’m sorry too, Kíli. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“Run along now,” Dís tells the youngster, and Thorin hears the door open once more, the sound of retreating footsteps, and then Dís’s quiet words. “Keep a close eye on him,” she says, no doubt catching Bofur just before he follows Kíli out of the council room. It wouldn’t be entirely unexpected for Kíli to do something rash, like stealing a war ram to try to ride out to wherever his One seems to have gone.

“Don’t I always?” the guard returns easily, and then he too disappears out into the hallway.

There’s a beat of silence as the door slides home again, and then Thorin feels Dís’s gaze on him like a physical weight.

“How bad is it this time?” she asks.

“Dís—”

“How bad?”

Thorin squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think, to come up with any sort of coherent answer. The pain is like a solid object now, pulsing angrily and leaving no room for anything else inside his head, nothing but the need to flee, to escape.

He’s quiet a moment too long, apparently, because Dís goes on then, words abrupt and forced, “I know how difficult this is—”

Thorin’s head whips up to glare at her, even as the migraine tries to split his skull in two. “It’s not the same thing!” he spits.

“It’s only going to get worse if you don’t let yourself _grieve_ , Thorin!”

“This isn’t grief, this is pain without a purpose,” he snarls in return.

Dís watches him for a long moment, lips pursed and eyes hard, poised on the edge of resurrecting this old argument – but then she shakes her head, sighing, and murmurs, “You should go see Óin.”

“Why?” Thorin demands, voice rough. “So he can tell me again that he can’t find anything wrong with me?”

Dís makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. “So he can tell you – _again_ – how to get through this, like you’ve been refusing to do for the last three decades!” Then, after a pause, couched as if it’s a peace offering, “I’ll ask Balin to clear the rest of your afternoon.”

Thorin wants to argue, wants to stop her from doing that. No, that’s not quite right – he wants to _want_ to stop her.

Instead, he sits there motionless while she and Dori leave, eyes closed and head in his hands, blocking out the light and attempting to block out all his thoughts, until the pain finally recedes enough to allow him to move. Dwalin rises with him but knows better than to try to help Thorin up. He follows nearby as Thorin makes his way back to the Royal Manse, just close enough to catch him should he stumble, and sees him safely into the cool darkness of the King’s quarters. Not a word passes between them the whole while, none of Balin’s fussing or Dís’s badgering, and for that, for the quiet presence of his bodyguard and closest friend, Thorin is supremely grateful.

 

* * *

 

He’s flying, soaring through the air, weightless and buoyant. The world spreads out beneath him in shades of gold and green, mountain crags disappearing in the distance behind him as he sails westward, ever westward. The setting sun beckons him on, opening its arms to welcome Thorin in, welcome him home—

The dream dissolves around him as Thorin comes slowly awake, splintering into nothingness, but he’s seen the same things behind his sleeping eyelids for so many years now that he could recite them without even thinking: always flying, sometimes as a raven, sometimes as himself, directly into the sunset in the west, beyond the Misty Mountains.

It’s ludicrous, and meaningless. And the inexplicable sense of peace that the dream brings him only makes the waking that much worse. Already, he can feel tension returning, the migraine lurking at the edges of his consciousness, waiting to sink its claws into him again.

He is unsurprised to find that night has fallen in the hours since he retreated to his rooms, the rest of his family all tucked away in their own quarters by now and the guards having rotated shifts out in the common areas of the Royal Mansion. Thorin pulls his cloak closer about himself as he steps out of his rooms, nodding once to the nearest guard as he makes his way through the darkened corridors towards the rooms set aside for official guests, just beyond their family area. The air cools and freshens as he walks, a breeze beginning to lift his hair away from his face, until he comes upon his goal: the sweeping outdoor veranda on the west-facing side of the mountain, carved out in ages past to accompany the rooms set aside for visiting dignitaries of the non-dwarven sort. Such an open-air balcony is an uncommon feature in a dwarven realm, but it’s high enough up over a sheer cliff face to not pose too great a risk to the mountain’s security, and so is not worth the trouble it would take to close it off.

Just as well, considering how often Thorin has found himself out here over the past few decades. Even now, he can spy a guard stationed at either end of the spacious balcony, their armor gleaming faintly in the moonlight, ready and waiting for one of their monarch’s frequent visits. Dwalin’s doing, of course.

Thorin ignores them, huddling into the fur of his cloak as he walks to the edge, stopping at the railing that rises just slightly too high against his chest – elf height, he sneers, and then tries to ignore those thoughts as well.

The Misty Mountains are a dark smudge in the distance, too far for even his night-vision to really pick out, and the moon hangs heavy and round above them in place of the sunset that Thorin is more often wont to watch from this spot. The sight soothes him, just a little, as it usually does, though the memory of the dream still rankles as it replays itself through his mind. The way Dís had looked at him earlier too, the way she _always_ looks at him – he knows what she thinks, what she’s wondered and worried over and suspected all these years, but she’s wrong.

Perhaps Thorin’s soul does ache, perhaps it is even tied to the recurring pains he has suffered the last several decades like Dís and Óin have come to believe – but what it is _not_ , though, is the pull towards completion that many others, including his sister and nephew, have described. There is no _direction_ in this sensation, not like the pull that Kíli feels now or the one that Dís felt in her youth. There’s no promise of joy at the end of this for Thorin, no partnership or surety in the knowledge that his other half lies in wait somewhere beyond the horizon, ever approaching the day that they will be reunited. There is no one waiting out there for Thorin.

But neither are Dís’s fears correct: he is not one of the Lost, left to linger in this world after his One passed on into the Halls of their ancestors, their life snuffed out before he could ever find them. No, that would require him to have _had_ a soulmate in the first place, someone who called to him across all the long miles, someone whose presence, unknown though it was, would be dearly missed as soon as it was gone.

And Thorin has never felt that.

He stares hard at the moon, something in him irrationally wishing for the warmth of the sun against his face instead of the cool light of the stars that his people hold so dear. Then, at least, while watching the sunset, he can imagine flying away across the mountains to chase its golden light to the ends of the earth, to escape his kingdom and the duties that were thrust on him so young, escape these accursed thoughts—

No. There is nothing for him in the west, no companionship he could not find here, no balm for the ache in his chest, as if something were missing from under his ribcage, some vital organ scooped out and discarded when the Maker’s hands formed him.

No, his place is here. His soul is matched, if anything, with the Mountain, the crown, and the people under his care.

Someday, he hopes, it might even feel like enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to our ridiculous little Hobbit Pride & Prejudice AU fic! What started with the phrase “Thorin is so Darcy” has grown into pages and pages of headcanons, outline, worldbuilding, and prose. We’ve taken extreme liberties with both the Austen and the Tolkien, to what will, we hope, be happy ends.
> 
> We’ll be updating throughout the summer, so please subscribe to be notified of updates!
> 
> -Sam & Jez ([Sheliesshattered](http://sheliesshattered.tumblr.com/) & [Jezunya](http://jezunya.tumblr.com/) on tumblr)
> 
> Khuzdul terms  
> Amad - Mother  
> Am’dad - (maternal) Uncle  
> Mim’ibinê - My little gem


	2. Netherfield Is Let At Last!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And lo, though they journeyed these many weeks, westward on the Great East Road of old, they did break their journey at last in the honorable town of Ibkhînu i’Tharâkh, or in its own tongue known by the name Waymeet, in the West Farthing of the Shire, a country of the lowlands cradled between the Abbad Malasul and Abbad Khagal._
> 
> -Excerpt from The Official Account of the Quest for the Soulmate of Prince Kíli of Erebor, Son of Dís, Daughter of Thráin, as recorded by the King’s Scribe Ori, son of Vuori

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any dialogue you recognize is from Jane Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_ ;)

* * *

 

 

* * *

  

“Oh, haven’t you heard, Mister Baggins? Netherfield is let at last!” Missus Puddlefoot exclaims.

Bilbo pulls his attention back from where he’d been watching the open door of the pipeweed shop across the way, hoping to spy the first barrels of the new spring blend as they go up for sale in advance of the festival tomorrow night. He blinks at the cheekily grinning tailor before glancing up at Tauriel, his friend and frequent companion, who shrugs and shakes her head a little at his look. “I beg your pardon?” he asks politely, turning back towards the other hobbit and noting, a bit sourly, that she still doesn’t appear to have his order in hand.

“Oooh,” she coos, and preens just a bit at being in possession of gossip that another hobbit is lacking. “Well, I suppose you two couldn’t’ve known, off gallivanting about who-knows-where as you always are. There’s been lights in the windows and smoke from the chimneys over there these last three days. They say an army of _dwarves_ has taken up residence there, and all of them royalty from distant lands!”

“I’m not sure one can be both royalty and in an army,” Bilbo remarks, but Tauriel leans down, frowning a little.

“Did you say dwarves, ma’am?”

“Yes indeed, Mistress Tauriel! A whole gaggle of them came in on the road through Bywater and out again towards Waymeet, all on ponies and bearing bags and chests of treasure and riches and who-knows-what!”

“And they were not merely a part of a summer caravan?” Tauriel asks, her slender brows pulling together. Bilbo glances up at her, mirroring her frown. They’d only been out adventuring for a few days, but apparently they’d missed something substantial in that short time.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he says, hoping to assuage the warrior’s sometimes jumpy instincts. “If they didn’t even come through Hobbiton—”

“Oh, but they did!” Missus Puddlefoot interrupts him, drawing their attention back to her. Bilbo frowns further, seeing as she’s completely given up any pretence of searching for his mended jacket. “Not at first, mind you, but plenty of folk who’ve come up from Bywater for the festival have been talking about seeing them ride through. And then just today, not two hours ago, a pair of them walked right into the marketplace as brazen as you please! Bought up a whole cart of meat from the butcher and sacks and sacks of tubers, but not a speck of anything green! ‘Twas quite irregular, I say.”

“Dwarves being known for their great love of vegetables,” Tauriel answers flatly, with just enough edge to cause Bilbo to cast her another concerned look.

“Well, this lot certainly _look_ like they’ve been eating their vegetables, if you take my meaning,” Missus Puddlefoot says, winking salaciously up at Tauriel and then at Bilbo.

“Err,” Bilbo starts, but the good Missus Puddlefoot continues over him.

“Why, Millie Mudwhistle, she saw them ride through Bywater with her own two eyes, and she said they looked strong as a team of oxen, each of ‘em, and there were no less than a dozen in their company! All bedecked like royalty, crowns and furs and velvets and _well!_ The talk now, of course, is that we’re to expect them all at the Ashseed festival tomorrow night, all twenty or more! I know what _Millie_ ’s hoping to catch a glimpse of, but me, my eye will be trained on those foreign fineries of theirs. That’ll be a treat to see on a spring night, no question about it.”

“ _Speaking_ of velvet!” Bilbo cuts in, teeth clenched in a wide and rather forcefully polite smile. “I do believe you have a jacket ready for me.”

“Oh yes!” she says, finally turning to the waiting row of brown paper wrapped parcels. “Mended the cuff and the back pleat, replaced the elbow patches. You must be more careful on your _adventures_ , Mister Baggins,” she tells him, sniffing with distaste at the mention of his and Tauriel’s excursions beyond the Shire as she produces the package marked _B. Baggins_. “I do worry about how frequently you catch yourself on passing twigs and shrubbery.”

“It was a goblin’s dagger, actually,” Bilbo answers flatly, but Puddlefoot just waves her hand in the air dismissively.

“Whatever you want to call it, you must be more careful, Mister Baggins!”

“Right. Thank you, Missus Puddlefoot,” he says from between clenched teeth, gathering up his order, Tauriel close at his heels as they step out into the bright sunshine and pre-festival excitement of central Hobbiton.

“I swear, sometimes it feels as though the Shire gets more provincial every time we leave,” Bilbo mutters, knowing that his friend’s sharp elven ears will pick up his every word.

“And a week in the wilds has you wishing for your soft bed and warm hearth again, without fail,” Tauriel murmurs back in a distracted sort of affection.

“Oh hush, you,” he responds with a grin, kicking a little dust towards her shiny boots, which she would normally avoid quite easily. Glancing up at her with mild concern, he notes the set of her jaw and the line forming between her brows as she scans the crowd, as though she might have missed an army of royal dwarves milling about the marketplace.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, my dear,” he tells her again, searching for the surety he felt upon his first pronouncement, even as he watches her sharp gaze flow over the roofs of the shops and the surrounding trees. Bilbo notes, with some trepidation, no less than a dozen large black birds perched in amongst the branches and eaves, quite a foreign contrast to the Shire’s more diminutive flocks, but decides against commenting aloud on something they have both clearly noticed.

“Dwarves in the Shire are hardly an oddity these days,” he continues, taking a few ambling steps in the direction of their next stop and waiting for her to follow, “what with all the caravans that travel the Great Road, and their commendable preference for our fine accommodations over those offered in the lands of men. Why wouldn’t a more well-to-do group want the best lodgings for hire in the West Farthing? Perfectly reasonable,” he adds with a nod, not sure which of them he’s trying to convince more, at this point.

“Mm,” Tauriel hums noncommittally, falling into step beside her friend and switching the basket of her purchases to the other arm, her gaze still making slow circuits over the milling throngs of hobbits going about their business in the marketplace. “Caravans of dwarven craftspeople, that is a common enough sight. This may well be something else entirely.”

“Well, I suppose we shall see at the Festival tomorrow night, if this rumored army of finely dressed dwarves really does show up,” Bilbo says, then adds, “and perhaps Missus Puddlefoot was mistaken. It is only gossip, after all.”

Tauriel takes a deep breath and seems to shake herself a little. “You are right, mellon nin,” she says, “it is probably nothing. And certainly nothing worth ruining such a fine spring day over. One must never underestimate a hobbit’s love of good gossip,” she adds with a grin down at him.

Truer words have rarely been spoken, Bilbo muses, as the rumors are much the same everywhere else they go in the market, if a bit wilder and harder to believe with each passing moment.

“Three score of them, I hear, and every one the heir to a great kingdom! Oh, what a fine thing for our young folk!” Mister Cherryplum enthuses to them over the top of his crates of onions and spinach.

“How so? How can it affect them?” Bilbo asks, blinking at the greengrocer and honestly wishing they could simply buy their produce in peace. There was a reason he and Tauriel had come down to the market the day _before_ the festival, before the town was awash in hobbits from all over the surrounding countryside, everyone celebrating the start of summer and carousing and jostling for room on the dance floor and out around the bonfires, before Bilbo would be called upon as one of the local landowners to help organize and contain all of their revelry.

“Why, Mister Baggins!” Mister Cherryplum cries, almost reproving. “You must know there’s talk of them princes marrying some of ours!”

“Oh? Is that their design in coming here?” Tauriel asks, a guarded curiosity warring with the dry humor in her voice. Bilbo casts her an annoyed glance, catching that enigmatic elven smile on her lips, the one that says she is well aware of Bilbo’s growing irritation with his neighbors even as she seems to find the entire situation rather amusing now.

He does wish she wouldn’t encourage them.

“Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so!” Cherryplum chortles, and wags a fat finger up at Tauriel. “But it is very likely that they _may_ fall in love with some of our fine hobbitfolk during their stay,” he adds, grinning again. “And why shouldn’t they, even if the whole hundred of them are from such rich, far away lands, they’ll not find better sorts than amongst us Shire types!”

Bilbo simply sighs, pays for his groceries, and continues to ignore Tauriel’s broadening smirk.

“You’d think we didn’t have caravans coming and going to the Blue Mountains every year, with the way everyone’s prattling on about these dwarves,” he grumbles as they finally begin the walk back up the Hill towards Bag End. “Honestly, I haven’t seen this much excitement since _you_ first arrived here, my dear!”

Tauriel chuckles, shaking her head at his bluster, setting her long red hair to swaying. “Handsome strangers from the east come to stay, at this time of the year? Why wouldn’t they be excited? It’s the weather.”

Bilbo stops at the gate of Bag End to check his mailbox and finds himself scowling down at the handful of increasingly insistent notes Lobelia has left him over the last few days while they’ve been away. “What’s that now? The _weather_?” he asks absently, as he starts towards his door again.

Tauriel shrugs, smiling when he glances up at her. “Springtime. The days are getting warmer and the nights shorter, the entire Shire seems to be in bloom, and your kind get…” She pauses on the steps up to the front door to look out over the sprawl of the Shire, the rolling green hills and the distant bustle of the town, and smiles fondly even while wrinkling her nose, “… _frisky_.”

A snort of laughter escapes Bilbo before he can compose himself. “That they do, my dear, that they do.”

“You say that as though you are not one of them,” Tauriel comments, following him inside and ducking carefully through the round doorway before pausing in the foyer to remove her boots. “Vi ethuil, govannas lopattenin ananírannen na govannas periannath,” she recites, smirking once more, and Bilbo very nearly throws a tomato at her.

 

* * *

 

Dís lets out a long, low breath, surveying the wood-paneled corridors spreading out before her, tunneling deep into the earth of the hillside. The halflings’ preoccupation with circular architecture and flammable materials is disorienting, disconcerting, but at least they get some things right: surfaces and amenities set at the correct height, unlike those amongst the humans that had come nearly to Dís’s shoulder; furnishings only slightly smaller than what the dwarves are used to, but sturdily built and generally plush, opulent even; and, most importantly, plenty of rooms for sleeping quarters without any windows to the outside, surrounded by dirt rather than stone but still effectively blocking out the lights and sounds of the open air, the ambiance that is so foreign to them after a lifetime spent deep inside the Mountain.

The journey has been long, and a good night’s rest – or several – has done them all good.

Her mouth twists as she moves through the hobbithole, glancing through open, rounded doorways at various Company members as she passes, unpacking as they haven’t before on the road here. Making themselves at home. One week, she and Balin had agreed. They would rest here a week, and then move on.

Though they don’t say it, most in the Company seem to realize how unlikely such a short sojourn actually is.

The lease is currently for a single week, but they can rent the place indefinitely, or so the halfling magistrate had assured Balin and Glóin when they had gone to meet him. This place has apparently stood empty for several years, unused by the old clan that owns the land, too big for any young couple just starting out to hope to manage, and too far removed, or so local opinion says, from the main hubbub of either of the two nearest towns for most hobbits – sociable little creatures, as Dís understands – to want to live out here.

 _Netherfield_ , an apt name, for the hill sits at the end of a wide swath of meadows, empty but for the odd herd of grazing sheep and the occasional hay bales, and backs into a thick gathering of dark trees, nothing to the great forests east of the Misty Mountains, but perhaps still managing to earn its name of the Netherwood. The sprawling mansion is perfect for their Company, of course: there are bedrooms for all of them without anyone having to double up unless they so choose, a large kitchen and a larger dining room, multiple pantries and cold storage rooms, and more than a few little parlors and sitting rooms and studies scattered throughout the underground structure.

And the distance, rather than being the deterrent the halflings all seem to view it as, is actually something of a boon for them. Though they’re only a short ride from Waymeet to the south and Hobbiton to the east, they won’t have to intermingle with any of the area’s other inhabitants unless they wish it. It’s not such an issue for most of them – just today, Glóin and Bombur had gone into town to buy extra provisions for tonight’s dinner celebration, and they’d reported nothing but friendly cheer from the locals, if a bit of a tendency to point and gossip behind their hands in full view of the newcomers.

No, mixing with these folk likely won’t be such a burden – just as long as they can keep Thorin from snapping and decapitating a bystander when they get too nosy for comfort.

Dís pauses in her circuit of the house in front of one the round windows that looks out onto the surrounding countryside, taking in the small, dark haired figure silhouetted against the shine and glimmer of the river that separates them from the town of Hobbiton. Kíli had taken his lunch outside some hours ago and plopped himself down at the edge of the water, facing towards the distant outline of buildings and crowds, and as far as Dís can tell he hasn’t moved an inch since. Bofur and Fíli spar a short distance from Kíli, with Bifur standing by, gesturing encouragement and critiques to the younger dwarves and keeping one eye on Kíli at all times. Dís doesn’t miss when the older guard suggests that they break for a bit, and Fíli immediately drops his practice sword to instead barrel into his brother’s side at full speed. She smiles, watching her boys tussle in the grass for a minute, but eventually Kíli’s attention is pulled back to the east, back towards the halflings’ town in the distance.

Fíli knows by now that there is little that will draw him away when he’s like this.

Dís sighs, forcing her gaze away from her two children, and turns at the sound of footsteps behind her.

“My lady,” Dori greets her with a small smile, and then raises the laden tea tray he carries before him. “I thought you might like to sample some of the new teas I’ve collected.”

“Me unsasu kayâl,” Dís responds, and her bodyguard’s smile widens at the obvious relief in her voice as he leads them to the little table and chairs set in one corner of the room. Dori pours the tea from the steaming pot on the tray as Dís settles into one of the two overstuffed armchairs, accepting the cup he hands her with quiet thanks. She breathes deeply of the aromatic vapors rising from the tea before taking a careful sip, unable to keep her eyes from straying back towards the window.

“Still out there, is he?” Dori asks quietly, following her gaze.

“Hasn’t moved all afternoon,” Dís confirms, sighing and reaching for the tiny jug of chilled cream that Dori nudges towards her across the tray. He always knows how she likes her tea. “Where is this from?”

“Bree, actually,” Dori answers, falling easily into his role of tea expert and connoisseur as he takes a tiny sip from his own cup. “It’s a bit spicy on the opening, in my opinion, but mellows in the aftertaste.”

“Mm,” she agrees, swallowing a little more of it. “Seems like something that would be quite nice in the deep of winter.”

“Agreed,” Dori smiles, sipping again, and then levels a serious, sympathetic look at her. Dís steels herself, knows what he’s about to ask. “Are you at all… concerned? About Kíli, I mean?”

“Or rather that the Ravens haven’t reported a single dwarf besides our Company anywhere within the Shire,” Dís grumbles.

“Well, yes,” Dori says, his face nothing but attentive compassion, “that is rather what I meant.”

Dís had held out hope over the last weeks, even over the last few days as they’d stopped here. Until reaching the Shire, Kíli’s Longing had seemed almost always to point west, with only short detours to the north or south before evening out again. Dís had clung to the belief that his One could be in the Blue Mountains, or perhaps traveling with a caravan, a trader, a blacksmith, a merchant come to sell metalwork from the dwarven realms of the far west. The route to Erebor passes right through these regions, and Dís herself is personally fond of the sweet pipeweed the traders often bring with them from the Shire. There could be such a group just past the borders of the halflings’ lands, moving towards them, coming east as the party from Erebor travels west, set on a collision course with them as both younglings are drawn inexorably towards their other half.

It could still be a dwarf.

Or so she had thought, so she had continued to tell herself, but now… Now, the chances seem more and more slim every time Dís looks at her youngest child. She’s watched Kíli the last few days, as they all have, watched as he grows ever more distracted and distant, unable to focus on anything else as he stands on the verge of finally finding the one person he’s spent his entire life yearning for, watched as his dark head tilts this way and that as if he is listening to a faraway sound that only he can hear.

Dís is quite familiar with this process; she knows what these signs mean. The Longing is like a cord pulled taut, connecting the two halves of the soul to each other, ever pulling them towards one another. She felt it herself when she was young, felt the excitement and the change when the southern caravan finally brought Víli to Erebor, when they finally drew near enough to meet. For the direction of the Longing to shift as suddenly and as often as Kíli’s actions suggest means that they’re extremely close, within a few miles of each other, near enough for Kíli to sense his One’s every turn and movement. Such a small distance can only mean that his One is somewhere within the confines of the Shire, and unless there’s an invisible dwarf contingent in the immediate area that the Ravens have somehow overlooked, that can mean only one thing: her son’s other half is a hobbit.

It’s not as if matches outside of their own race are entirely unheard of; in ages past, there were even a few who found their One among the elves. It is unusual, though, and certainly… certainly _complicated_. Kíli is a gentle soul, sweet and bright, for all that he’s a fearless and well-trained warrior, a noble son of Durin. He will go to his One no matter who, or what, they are, will devote himself to them as only a dwarf in love can. Mahal shaped them for each other, created them to be each other’s perfect match, and so perhaps it is fitting that her son’s soulmate should come from such soft, peaceful folk. Perhaps Mahal intends them to find some measure of tranquility in turn, to open their doors and their hearts to such an outsider, as they haven’t done since long before either of her children were born.

“Nori said there’s talk of a festival tomorrow night,” she says, pulling herself from her thoughts and back to the tea and Dori’s quiet, pleasant company. “In that town across the little river, Hobbiton.”

“Bombur said he heard the same when he was in the market earlier,” Dori says. “Quite a lot of the Shirefolk from the country will be coming into town for the celebration.”

Dís sighs, nodding, and drains the last of her tea. “As good a place as any to find your soulmate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul terms  
> Abbad Khagal - the Blue Mountains  
> Abbad Malasul - the Misty Mountains  
> Ibkhînu i’Tharâkh - Waymeet  
> Me unsasu kayâl - You’re a lifesaver
> 
> Sindarin terms  
> Mellon nin - my friend  
> Vi ethuil, govannas lopattenin ananírannen na govannas periannath. - In spring, the company of rabbits is more desirable than the company of Hobbits.


	3. Ashseed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _From time immemorial, the peoples of the Shire marked this season with a Festival to their Green Lady – even Yavanna, beloved of Aulë, the Maker – repledging their fields and themselves to her service through the fires of summer and their yearly fertility celebrations. And into this Festival walked Kíli, son of Dís, of the House of Durin, seeking his One…_
> 
>  
> 
> -Excerpt from The Official Account of the Quest for the Soulmate of Prince Kíli of Erebor, Son of Dís, Daughter of Thráin, as recorded by the King’s Scribe Ori, son of Vuori

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter grew and morphed on us in some really delightful ways, and turned out a lot longer than we’d originally thought. Because of the overlapping narratives we didn’t feel like we could split it into multiple chapters, but future chapters will likely not be this long, so enjoy the indulgence while you can. ;)

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

Thorin II, called Oakenshield, Son of Thráin, Son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, Heir to the Line of Durin, and Overlord of the Seven Dwarven Realms, has a headache.

It’s not a _new_ headache, of course. No, it’s the same blasted one that has dogged his heels since the day they left the Mountain. Certainly since they crossed the Misty Mountains into the westlands, absolutely since breaking their journey amongst Lord Elrond’s sneering kin, and quite possibly the very same headache that has pained him for nearly the entirety of his nephew’s young life.

It’s really not Kíli’s fault. It might just be Dís’s, though.

“I don’t want to go,” he grates out, leaning his head back against his chair and closing his eyes. Not that that does anything to stop the sharp spike of pain that lances across his skull.

The boot Dís tosses directly into his stomach doesn’t help either.

“You’re going,” she says firmly when he cracks his eyes open to glare at her.

“‘Alanurt nurtuênâdê,” he reminds her, sitting up straighter to push the boot out of his lap and onto the floor. Dís glowers at him until he relents and leans down to start pulling it on. “You can’t make me go.”

“Only until the sun sets,” Dís counters, “which is conveniently when this party is supposed to _start_. Or do you suggest we show up late to the event where your nephew may well meet his One for the first time?”

Thorin winces, the migraine pounding away at his temples and behind his eyes, and turns his attention to catching the second boot that Dís tosses to him, though thankfully this time she aims for his open hands instead of his midsection. “Either they’ll be there or they won’t; our timing won’t change that,” he grumbles, pulling furs and straps and buckles into place.

“Shosh,” Dís hisses at him, frowning. “None of that talk! We’re here to support Kíli, remember?”

“I— Right. Of course,” he sighs, rubbing at his forehead, and hauls himself to his feet. He pauses to strap Deathless into place at his hip as Dís leads the way out of the dim little sitting room where Thorin had sought refuge from all the chatter and ruckus of the rest of the Company. They’d discussed all of this over the last few days as they’d settled into the comfortable seclusion of their rented hobbithole, finally away from the prying eyes and jeering voices of strangers on the long road that had brought them here. _Here_ being exactly the problem, of course: the Shire, a land of peace and plenty and not a single dwarf in sight. But they will stand by Kíli no matter what, no matter who his Longing pulls him towards.

“How is this even possible?” he hears Dís fussing up ahead, and looks up to see his sister all but wrestling Kíli into submission in the entry hall to get at his hair, unkempt at usual. “I swear I saw you combing it not one hour ago!”

“Told you she’d notice,” Fíli murmurs to his brother with a smirk, making Thorin snort and smile a little as he draws even with them, despite the pain now spiraling lazily down his neck and across his shoulders. His elder nephew is, of course, perfectly resplendent in his muted golds and tawny furs, not a hair out of place ever since his moustache grew long enough to braid.

The two princes are accompanied by their respective guards, Bifur hovering by Fíli’s shoulder and Bofur lounging in the doorway to the parlor behind Kíli. Balin and Dwalin wait by the front door, and they each greet Thorin with a nod when he approaches, which he manages to return with only a small wince.

“Akh, I can do it myself, Amad!” Kíli protests behind him, and Thorin turns to see his youngest nephew rather ineffectually trying to escape Dís’s grasp as she begins rapidly redoing his braids.

“Then _do it_ , but don’t think you can appear in public looking like you’ve just come from the training ring,” Dís answers sternly, her deft fingers never once pausing in their braiding.

Dori is in a similar state nearby, making last minute adjustments to his youngest brother’s hair and clothing and sighing expansively at the fact that Nori is, once again, nowhere to be found. Dwalin merely shrugs when his brother-in-law’s baleful gaze turns on him, not needing words to demand where the Kingsguard’s wayward husband and One has gone.

“I’ve long since accepted that he’ll come and go as he pleases. Wouldn’t be a very good Spy Master if we always knew where he was, now would he?” Dwalin grunts, folding his arms over his chest. Dori merely snorts, shaking his head, and turns back to Ori just as the young scribe tries to make a break for freedom.

Beside them, Dís caps off the braid of the Royal House of Durin in Kíli’s hair with the bead of Víli’s line, but allows Kíli to finish the Questing braid on the opposite side himself before pulling them both back into the silver clasp he favors at the back of his head. “There now,” she breathes, smoothing the rest of his hair with her hands before turning Kíli back around to face her. She reaches for Fíli as well to gather both of her sons to her, a firm hand on each of their shoulders. “Mên ‘urganê,” she tells them quietly, pulling them in close enough to press their foreheads all together in a lingering embrace. Thorin clearly sees the tension drain from Kíli’s shoulders as he breathes into their close shared space, and Fíli catches his uncle’s eye as the three of them break apart, shooting him a small, private smile that Thorin tries to return, despite the way his own neck and shoulders only seem to further seize up, as though they have taken up the very tension that Kíli has just shed.

“Are we ready to go then?” Balin asks, smiling cheerily when the three of them straighten and turn to face him, Thorin, and Dwalin.

“I think so,” Dís answers, and Thorin follows her gaze as she turns to survey the smaller group that will accompany them to the hobbit party: Óin and Glóin are both happy for a quiet evening alone, as there will, hopefully, be little need for either a healer or the Keeper of the Purse at this little country festival. The two of them are already ensconced in the plush armchairs in the adjacent sitting room, a full pipe in each of their mouths and a game of Tusr'uzghû Uzbâd set between them. Bombur, likewise, seems to have had his fill of crowds and curious hobbits after his trip into town yesterday, and has only left his post in the kitchen to see them off and wish Kíli well this evening. And Nori, of course, is off skulking about somewhere in or around the celebration, keeping out of sight and gathering intel on their new neighbors with the help of the network of Ravens who all report back to him.

The Quest for a dwarf’s One is traditionally a family affair – parents, siblings, possibly a very close friend or two. The Royal Family of Erebor, of course, hasn’t gone anywhere without protection since long before Fíli and Kíli were born, both in the form of their own weapons and armor and in their trusted personal guards. Dwalin has been with Thorin since the day he took the throne, and Dori became the head of Dís’s detail not long after. Bifur and Bofur both proved themselves on the battlefield after their family immigrated from the Blue Mountains, and soon rose through the ranks of Erebor’s military to their current positions as heads of Fíli and Kíli’s protection details. Entrusting anyone with the lives of his family members – those remaining, at any rate – is not something Thorin undertakes lightly, but each of these dwarves have proven themselves loyal and honorable, and have been with them long enough now to essentially be considered kin.

Balin rounds out the group attending the party tonight, as Chief Political Advisor to the Crown and much-needed buffer between Thorin and the rest of the noisy, irritating, pain-inducing world. His skills in smoothing any number of potentially disastrous diplomatic encounters have been vital along the journey here, just as they likely will be tonight amongst these halflings. Though, obviously, that will depend on just how crude and rudimentary whatever form of government they have here is, Thorin thinks with a snort as he leads the way out of the hobbithole and into the slanting evening sunshine. The others follow behind him, pouring out past him as Thorin pauses just outside the door, Dwalin at his side, letting Dís take the lead as he watches their group move past and ensures they have everyone before moving out.

It’s a short walk into Hobbiton, where he can already make out the distant sounds of fiddle music, cheering voices, and stomping feet, but such caution is too deeply ingrained by now, especially out in such strange lands as these, innocuous though they may seem.

“So what do you think?” Fíli asks, leaving his place by Kíli and Dís after a minute to fall back next to Thorin instead, their shadows stretching out long on the unpaved ground before them.

Thorin glances at him as they walk, raising an eyebrow. “Of what?”

“Of all this,” Fíli answers, gesturing around them at the sprawling green country of the Shire, the rolling hills dappled with wildflowers and fat sheep in the distance, the sky clear and painted gold and amber by the light of the setting sun at their backs. His nephew shrugs, hooking his thumbs into his belt around the protruding hilts of several of his knives. “Of how we ended up here,” he adds, and casts a significant nod towards his brother.

Thorin has to work to smother his grimace, his headache making a resurgence as his thoughts turn once more to the topic of his youngest nephew and the exact purpose of their journey here. It’s terribly ironic, he can’t help thinking, how long he had dreamed of coming west, of crossing the mountains and finding some peaceful, green country free of all care and responsibility. It had been nothing more than an abstract representation of his desire to flee from the duties of the crown, but the fact that such a place does, apparently, exist, that the Shire so perfectly matches everything he’s seen in his dreams for _decades_ , leaves an undeniably bitter taste in the back of Thorin’s mouth. Especially since the real place has brought him none of the tranquility or quiet joy that has so suffused his dreams, instead only seeming to somehow exacerbate his migraines.

“I think,” he says slowly, wrestling his way through the fog that the pain has made of his thoughts and watching where he places his feet amongst the packed dirt and random clumps of grass. The halflings are apparently averse to the use of actual paving stones to mark their roads. “That whatever happens, it is our duty to support and… _accept_ Kíli’s One, whomever they may be.”

Fíli huffs, smiling. “Amad was just saying something like that to Kíli. Not that he really needs telling, it’s just…” He trails off, shrugging.

“Complicated,” Thorin supplies for him, glowering out at the foreign landscape around them.

Fíli nods thoughtfully. “They likely won’t even know him when they meet, or know anything about what it means to be a dwarf’s One. And bringing an outsider into our culture is always complex, but the royal family…” He shakes his head. “At least he doesn’t have to inherit. At least you and I don’t have to worry about any of this One nonsense, right?” he asks with a commiserating smile over at Thorin.

Thorin can’t say which comes first: tripping over a hard clod of dirt and grass in his path, or the near-blinding bolt of agony that shoots across the top of his head.

Fíli and Dwalin both cry out and each grasp one of his shoulders, keeping him from falling and steadying him until Thorin is able to stand on his own once more. When he does finally straighten, it is to the sight of Dís looking back over her shoulder at him, the same fierce concern she’s been leveling at him for years in her eyes now. Thorin scowls, forcibly ignoring her, and thankfully no one tries to engage him in conversation for the rest of the walk.

They make their way eastward along the bank of the little river that forms the boundary of the sprawling pastures that surround Netherfield, until they come to a small footbridge – the only place these soft country folk seem to have bothered with stonework at all, a thought that does nothing to soothe the throbbing pain in Thorin’s skull as the solid rock under his boots gives way to packed dirt once more. They cross over to the northern side of the river and continue in the direction of the lights and sounds of the party, the group shifting to coalesce behind them as Thorin joins Dís in the lead once more. He can feel Dwalin at his shoulder, just a pace behind, and knows that Dori has similarly moved to flank Dís. Balin moves between the two guards, ready to step into his diplomatic role should the need arise, and Bifur and Bofur bring up the rear, just behind Fíli, Kíli, and Ori. Thorin doesn’t need to look back to know they’ve all fallen into line in their customary positions; it’s a force of habit by now, the royal family and staff working together like a well-oiled machine after decades at each other’s sides.

It’s not hard to pick out where the party is set to take place: an open field lies just north of the main marketplace, where a large, old tree catches the last amber rays of the sun amongst the many little lanterns hung high in its branches and the dull roar of a dense crowd rises above the scratch of fiddles and the energetic beat of drums. There is some activity in the town still as they pass through, the buildings all strung with the same lamps – candles set within simple glass cases, fragile and rudimentary – while a few dozen halflings scurry about in the streets between vendors hawking ale, sparklers, ribbons in every shade of red, orange, yellow. Many of them stop in whatever they’re doing, sometimes seemingly mid-sentence, to stare at the dwarven contingent as they pass. Thorin pays them no heed; he keeps his eyes resolutely forward, though his scowl admittedly has less to do with appearances than with the pounding in his temples and the ringing in his ears. He tries to follow his sister’s example, refusing to slump before this internal attack, as Dís only lifts her chin in the face of the hobbits’ scrutiny, striding forward tall and fierce as her moniker would imply.

The land for the party is surrounded by a row of hedges, separating the field from the rest of the town. He can see a tall wooden pillar above the bushes, into which it appears twisting floral designs have been scorched. Long colorful ribbons extend from the very top of the pole, moving and jerking about seemingly at random, and it is only as they begin to draw nearer to the party that Thorin can make out figures holding the ends of the ribbons and dancing in quick-moving circles about the pole. For the most part, though, the Shirelings seem to mill about aimlessly, chattering and helping themselves to the many long tables of food, perhaps waiting for sunset and the true start of their festivities, as Dís had said.

Dís glances over at him and they share a brief, heavy look as they approach the gap in the hedgerow, their last moment of solitude before they are plunged into this world of foreigners. Their last chance to turn around and leave, to call the whole thing off. Thorin’s headache spikes somehow higher than ever, almost blinding him, sending shudders across his whole body, but he can only grit his teeth and push on.

“I must ask you to disarm,” a voice says from just ahead, jarring Thorin’s thoughts to a halt, as a tall figure – too tall to be a dwarf, much less a halfling – steps out into the path before them, silhouetted by the lights and the noises of the party beyond, “before I can allow you to continue any farther.”

“Oi! Stand aside!” Dwalin growls from behind him, while Thorin feels Dís tense at his side, the both of them sizing up their foe through hooded eyes. That infernal ringing still sounds in his ears, louder than ever, somehow, and still rising, leaving him feeling almost as though he is floating, disembodied and disconnected from the rest of the world.

The elf’s hand twitches but doesn’t rise, though Thorin finds his eyes drawn to the twin blades sheathed across her shoulders nonetheless. “Drop your weapons,” she tells them firmly, “or I will have to take them from you.”

“You try it—” Dwalin sputters, while Balin pipes up, “This is Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, Lord of Erebor and King Under the Mountain, and Lady Dís Wolfrend, Daughter of Thráin, High Princess and Keeper of the Realm. These are no common ruffians that you can demand their weapons on sight.”

The elf regards Balin silently for one moment, blinking slowly. “You are quite far from your kingdom,” she says then, and turns her gaze to Thorin, “ _Boy King_.”

Thorin feels his eyes widen as Dís curses darkly beside him, rage swelling in his chest, the ringing in his ears crescendoing, climbing higher and higher, louder and louder, piercing and insistent, pulsing in frantic time to his heartbeat, something like the heat of battle coursing through his veins, and his fingers just close around the hilt of Deathless when a new voice breaks through the cacophony.

“What’s all this?” The question is accompanied by a pattering of bare feet round the corner off to the left, and Thorin’s gaze cuts over to the approaching hobbit while the ringing in his ears reaches new heights, as if all the anvils in all the forges of Erebor and Khazad-dûm together have been struck as one, deafening him, drowning out all other sounds but _that voice_ , all other sights gone hazy but for the slight figure walking towards him.

The elf says something, something muffled and far away, something that makes the hobbit turn from meeting Thorin’s gaze to look up at her instead, and Thorin would direct a ferocious glare at her too but that would mean allowing his eyes to stray from this halfling, and that is something Thorin simply _cannot do_ —

The hobbit looks at him again, blinking a few times, brows furrowed, and then he says, “I’m afraid she’s right. Tauriel here is our, erm, our Guardian, you could say, Guardian of the Shire, officially, in fact. We’re rather fond of her, you see, and we do prefer that no weapons be carried here, except when absolutely necessary. Ask any hobbit here and they’ll back her up—”

“ _Fine!_ ” Thorin cuts him off, unbuckling his weapon belt and throwing his sword to the ground at the halfling’s feet – not at the elf’s, _never_ at an elf’s feet, and certainly not one of the all too recognizable ginger elves of the Mirkwood – before stalking past into the bright, boisterous noise of the party. He hears the others following suit behind him, blades and sheaths and hammers clanging dully against each other on the ground, and Thorin allows himself only one glance back to again catch the wondering gaze of that accursed hobbit.

 

* * *

 

Golden light surrounds her, all the choirs of all the halls of all the dwarves who have ever lived are singing in his ears, roaring their joy and praises, for surely this glorious being is the most beautiful creature to have ever graced the surface of Arda, surely this voice is the only one Kíli’s ears have ever sought to hear, surely this face has been carved upon his eyelids all these many years and he has simply, somehow, never known.

The Longing sings within him, jubilant, brighter than the sun and all the stars together, hotter than any forge that has ever burned, suffusing him with its heat, its certainty, its _rightness_ as Kíli gazes, at last, upon the other half of his soul.

His One glances at him, briefly, after his uncle and the others have gone ahead and she has stopped both his brother and Mister Dwalin to relieve them of a few more of their hidden knives before sending them on their way as well. It is only a quick flicker of sparkling green eyes, taking in his form from head to toe caps, sending tiny mountain peaks chasing all across his skin, and then, somehow, inexplicably, she begins to turn away.

“Aren’t you going to search me?” Kíli asks, quick, not _desperate_ so much as, well— She looks back, though, one slender brow raised as she gazes down at him again, and Kíli swallows, because she is _looking at him_ , she has _seen_ him, she _knows_ him. He goes on with a small smirk, “I could be hiding anything down my trousers.”

“Or nothing,” she replies smoothly, and though she does leave then, Kíli could swear he sees a small smile at the corner of her lips as she turns from him. He stands gaping for a moment as the choirs resolve into one harmonious, resonating note filling his bones, until Bofur prods him in the back to keep moving.

It is only with dark green blotting out his vision and the taste of vegetation in his mouth that Kíli realizes he has walked right into the hedgerow. Bofur chuckles under his breath and gives him a quick tug on the shoulder and a gentle shove in the right direction, through the gap in the shrubbery and on into the party proper. With Bofur’s help Kíli continues to put one foot in front of the other, but he twists to try to catch a glimpse of red hair over his shoulder, his One pausing at the gate to speak with a hobbit. Facing forward again, his gaze skitters over his brother’s face, Fíli’s eyebrows raised in curiosity.

“What was that about?” Fíli asks, when he and Bofur draw even with Fíli and Bifur at the edge of the dance floor, waiting for them as the others go on ahead.

“Fee,” Kíli breathes, craning his neck to try to catch another glimpse, “it’s _her_.”

“Who?” his brother asks. He looks around, in the completely wrong direction, across the swirling bodies on the dance floor, as though it’s not _obvious_ , as if it could be _anyone else_. “Wait,” Fíli says, turning back to him with a frown and something like growing horror in his eyes, Kíli can’t quite say at the moment. “You don’t mean the— the _guard_?”

Kíli nods mutely, gaze once again drawn back to the flash of red hair and pale skin above the hobbits streaming into the party.

“The guard you greeted with a dick joke. That guard?” Fíli asks flatly, crossing his arms.

Kíli sighs happily as he catches a clearer view of her profile, and nods again.

“Afraid so, laddie,” Bofur says with a grin.

“You cannot be serious,” Fíli says, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

“Who jokes about something like this?” Kíli shoots back, mildly affronted but still unable to keep the smile off his face, the pure joy suffusing every inch of his frame.

“But Kee,” his brother hisses, stepping in close enough to block his view of much else, “she’s an _elf_.”

“So?” Kíli blinks, frowning at him. “What’s the matter, don’t you like her?”

Fíli sputters for a moment. “It’s not a question of _liking_ her, Kee, look at her, she’s an elf! A _Mirkwood_ elf!” he says in a harsh undertone, his voice edged with panic, gesturing to where a part in the crowd has revealed her once again, and Kíli doesn’t need a second suggestion to drink in the sight of her.

She is smiling her twinkling smile as she talks with a pair of halflings over at the hedge, hair like forge-heated copper swaying free down the length of her back, pulled back from her noble brow in a few simple braids that frame her delicately pointed ears. Freckles of a color with her hair are speckled across her pale shoulders and continue down her lithe, finely muscled arms, each placed as perfectly as the stars themselves. And though she is currently encumbered with a large pile of dwarven weapons, a pair of short dirks of excellent craftsmanship are also strapped in sheaths across her back within easy reach. A warrior, of that he has no doubt, as out of place here as a ruby among riverstones.

Bifur clears his throat loudly, and Kíli forces his gaze back to them. “I suppose she is,” he says at last, dubiously.

“You know what that means, right?” Fíli asks.

“...That my interest in archery suddenly makes a lot more sense?” Kíli hazards a guess. Fíli glares at him, while Bofur lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like laughter.

“We can’t. Tell. Uncle,” Fíli emphasizes slowly, staring hard into his brother’s eyes. “Or Mam, for that matter. At least not right out. We’ll need a little time to ease them into the idea. In fact, just don’t tell _anyone_ for a while, okay?”

“That’ll be a hard one to keep in the earth,” Bofur replies, as Kíli turns his eyes back to his wondrous, beautiful, perfect, exquisite, Mahal-crafted… _elf_.

Fíli sighs, shaking his head. “We just need to buy a little time. We’ll tell them… We’ll tell them he met her, but—”

“I don’t see why I should have to lie about her,” Kíli starts to argue, turning back to frown at Fíli.

 _Incoming_ , Bifur signs, a mere second before Ori pops up behind Fíli’s other shoulder.

“Has something important happened?” the younger dwarf asks, notebook clutched to his chest and charcoal pencil already in hand. “I should get down all the details while they’re still fresh in your mind. Have you spotted them yet?”

“Yes,” Kíli breathes, turning his head to try to catch a glimpse of her again. From the corner of his vision, he sees Fíli cover his face with one hand.

“Err, _saw_ her, yes,” Bofur jumps in. “But he hasn’t had a chance to approach her just yet. And you know how it is with foreign matches, have to ease them into it, don’t we? Best keep back for now, don’t want to overwhelm the lass, after all.”

“Oh. Right.” Ori glances around at each of them, seeming a little unconvinced still, and finally addresses Kíli again. “Any details at all, your highness?” he asks, slipping into uncharacteristically formal language as he opens the tome in his arms. Suddenly gone is their childhood friend, replaced by the professionalism of the Royal Scribe. “Anything you can tell me now will help round out the record in the end.”

Kíli sighs happily and knows that a ridiculous grin has spread itself across his face once more, but he really can’t bring himself to care. “She has red hair, and freckles, and a smile like the Seven Stars…”

“And she’s _shy_ ,” Fíli emphasizes, stepping in between him and Ori. “Kíli barely got a word in before she scampered off. He’s going to need plenty of space if he has any hope of getting to know her tonight. Can’t come on too strong and all that.”

“Right, right,” Ori responds absently, frowning down at the page as he jots down Kíli’s words verbatim. “I won’t be underfoot, I promise. I’ll just find a place to watch from and write down a few notes on the general ambiance.” He smiles up at them, nods at each in parting, and then slips off through the crowd to rejoin the rest of their party.

 _Nice save_ , Bifur signs at his cousin and Fíli once the four are alone again.

“Won’t matter much if he keeps staring at _the one and only elf_ here,” Fíli replies, giving Kíli’s shoulder a light shove.

“How can you possibly expect me to look away from such _beauty_?” Kíli asks, eyes once again searching out his One.

“You’ll wish you had, once Uncle declares open war in the middle of a hobbit festival,” Fíli mutters darkly.

Kíli jerks his gaze back to his brother at that. He hadn’t considered _political_ fallout from the identity of his One. “You don’t really think he would?” he asks his older brother, feeling like a cavern has opened up beneath him.

“I’d rather not find out,” Fíli sighs and puts a hand on each of Kíli’s shoulders, leaning in close. “Which means you need to stop. Staring. At. The. Elf.”

“Come on, lad,” Bofur chuckles, patting Kíli on the back before slinging an arm around his shoulders. “We’ll go dance with every redhead here, then it’ll be a mystery to everyone which one’s caught your eye.”

Fíli nods, leaning back, and surveys the churning dance floor as well. “Sounds like a solid plan,” he says with a smirk. “Looks like I’ve got the blonds and brunettes, then.”

 

* * *

 

Tauriel makes her way over to the tall table set aside for her use, nestled against the hedgerow near the entrance, set far enough back from the dance floor and band stage so as not to block anyone’s view. Slipping past groups of cheerful, sooty hobbits, many of whom call happy greetings to her as she passes, she catches sight of Bilbo already perched on one of the two elf-height chairs, a pair of tankards and a plate heaped with food on the table before him, and sighs happily. She’d gone to deposit the dwarves’ weapons in the back room of the post office, arguably the most secure place in all of Hobbiton besides Tauriel’s own house, while he had seen to some more last-minute party business, with the promise that they would meet up again afterward. This will be their last moment of quiet before the festivities start in earnest, and after their run in with _actual dwarves_ earlier, drinking a cup of the delicious – if strong – hobbit ale with her best friend sounds like the perfect way to spend this respite.

He pushes one tankard towards her as she slides into the seat across from him, smiling like he can read her mind. And perhaps, after all these years, he nearly can. Once you can anticipate a person’s thoughts in battle, how hard is it to anticipate the need for ale? She smiles back and accepts it gratefully.

“Well,” Bilbo says, as she takes a long drink, “apparently the gossip was correct.” He waves his tankard in the direction of the table where the foreign king and several of his contingent have encamped themselves, on the very furthest edge of the crowd from where Tauriel and Bilbo now sit. “An army of royal dwarves,” he continues in that pleasant, dry tone of voice in which Tauriel is often the only one who can detect his underlying sarcasm. “At least _three dozen_ of them! Well-dressed and self-important. Wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

“That might be the most accurate the Hobbiton rumor-mill has ever been,” she murmurs flatly in reply, one corner of her mouth curling up. She notes, however, that their table has not gone unnoticed by the Boy King, either – though the name hardly fits anymore, as the dwarf glaring across at them is streaked with grey at the temples and must be nearly two hundred years old by now.

“So who are they?” Bilbo asks, seeming to sense the direction of her thoughts. “I thought I heard a name as I was walking up, didn’t quite catch it.”

“Thorin Oakenshield, Lord of Erebor and King Under The Mountain,” Tauriel answers, leaning back in her chair and idly toying with her half-full tankard. “Ruler of the dwarven kingdom that neighbors my homeland,” she adds, a bit softer.

“The Lonely Mountain,” Bilbo breathes, “on the far side of the Misty Mountains. What a sight it must be.”

“Mm.” It certainly was a sight the last time Tauriel was anywhere near there, some twenty years ago now. There were times in the last century, as she’d ventured further and further from home, from the family she’d once thought of as hers, times when she would climb up to the very highest reaches of the forest to see the stars and look across the great expanse of green in the night to the cold monolith of Erebor. There were times when she actually wondered what the view must be like from atop that solitary peak, how on a clear night, one might stand up there with the sky so much nearer and the Long Lake reflecting the glimmering lights back, stars both above and below, almost as though one could actually stand amongst them.

It was a silly fantasy, of course, not anything worth spending more time wondering at. Certainly not when she has seen how many wonders there are to be found right here at ground level, she thinks with a smile and a glance out across the masses of happy hobbits around her.

“Looks like you’ve got an admirer,” Bilbo quips, pulling her from her thoughts. He tilts his head briefly towards a table on the other side of the dance floor, where the young dark-haired dwarf who had spoken to her earlier is now blatantly staring at Tauriel, watching her with an open-mouthed, vaguely stunned expression. Tauriel feels herself flush bright pink and quickly drops her gaze back to her ale. “Never seen an elf before, do you think?” Bilbo laughs, grinning across at her.

“Never been outside of his mountain before, more likely,” she mutters, shifting in her seat to present only the smallest slice of her profile to the dwarf’s gaze.

“Well, he’s certainly outside of it now,” Bilbo smirks, with a glance past the crowd of dancing hobbits to the bonfires in the fields beyond and the little groups already starting to congregate out there. Tauriel’s blush only deepens.

“Lopattenin,” she reminds him, and then dodges the raisin he flicks at her.

“Do these Erebor dwarves not get out much, then?” Bilbo asks after a moment, settling back in his seat again. “The traders from Ered Luin don’t seem to bat an eye at the sight of an elf in the Shire.”

Tauriel nods. “The dwarves of the Lonely Mountain used to trade and interact freely with the humans of Dale as well as with my own people,” she says, “but their borders have been sealed shut ever since that one took the throne.” She gives another nod in Oakenshield’s direction, just in time to see Hobbiton’s Mayor approach the group, no doubt introducing herself and personally welcoming them to the festival. Tauriel’s hands itch for her dirks again, which she’d left secured in the post office along with the dwarves’ confiscated weapons, half expecting the newcomers to produce more daggers and hand-axes at Mayor Goodbody’s approach. As it is, the white-bearded one and the black-haired woman rise to meet her, actually smiling and bowing and altogether appearing much more cordial than they had at the gate.

The Mountain’s royal family wouldn’t come all the way out here themselves just to start a petty tavern brawl, she reminds herself. Whatever their purpose is in the Shire – and whatever instinctive animosity there might be between her kind and theirs – they have, technically, come in peace. They’re not worth any more of her time or concern than the other attendees at tonight’s party. “The last I understood,” she goes on, forcing her attention back onto Bilbo, “they traded a little still in Dale, but have had no relations whatsoever with the Woodland Realm in nearly a hundred and fifty years.”

“A _hundred_ and—?! He’s been their ruler all that time?!” Bilbo squawks, waving his tankard in the direction of the king – who, she can’t help but notice, narrows his eyes at Bilbo, as if tracking their conversation closely, though there’s no way he can hear what they’re saying from so far away, over so many other voices. “Why, I wouldn’t have pegged him for a day over seventy!”

Tauriel smiles and shakes her head, her heart warming at this reminder that, for all the ‘adventuring’ the two of them have engaged in these past ten years, Bilbo still maintains the ability to be surprised by the outside world. “Dwarves are not like you hobbit folk, mellon nin.”

“Well. No. Clearly. That is readily apparent,” Bilbo huffs, taking a long drink of his ale and frowning over at the dwarf, who is indeed still glaring at him. “Though I suppose it is nice to be reminded we’re not the only mortals around here,” he muses then, and glances up at her again. “Do you know, I feel quite old sometimes sitting next to you, Tauriel, what with you looking exactly the same as the day you arrived here.”

“I do bear a few more scars since meeting you, Bilbo Baggins,” Tauriel replies with mock-solemnity.

“I had no responsibility for that orc group that accosted us on the way to Rivendell!”

“No,” Tauriel agrees, and she cannot suppress her grin any longer, “but the wrath of your mother’s cheese grater is another matter entirely.”

“Oh, shush, you healed just fine!”

They laugh together at the shared memory for several moments, until Tauriel stiffens, noticing a very distinctive hat bobbing above the rest of the crowd, trailed by a younger, more modestly dressed figure, both coming right towards them. The tall table is something of a give-away, an easy target and likely location to find either she or Bilbo.

“What? What is it?” Bilbo asks, voice dropping as he picks up on the sudden change in her mood.

“Lobelia,” Tauriel answers tersely, not taking her eyes off their enemy.

Bilbo blanches. “And Ophelia?”

Tauriel nods, and he swears, already beginning to climb down from his high seat. “The opening ceremonies should distract them if you can get away,” she says, leaning down towards him.

“Right. Well, I’ll see you after, then,” Bilbo answers, and gives her a jaunty salute before dashing off into the crowd.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo darts between clumps of chattering hobbits, skirts past the circles of dancers around the Spring Pole, and ducks under a large barrel of mead as it’s carried towards the drinks section of the buffet. He keeps his expression serious and his gaze sharp on the decorations of ribbons and lanterns strung along the inside of the hedge, doing his best to appear businesslike and distracted. To get roped into a conversation with any of his neighbors now would leave him a sitting duck for the Sackville-Bagginses, and while being down amongst the rest of the revelers instead of in his usual place by Tauriel’s side does insulate him from Lobelia’s gaze to some degree, constant movement is really the key to avoiding her and her daughter.

Several people call out their greetings to him as he passes, making Bilbo suppress a wince as he answers them in kind and hopes that Lobelia hasn’t heard his name in their raised voices. Most of his neighbors simply wish him a fruitful Ashseed, though there are also a few rather flattering invitations out to the bonfires – invitations that Bilbo turns down with a smile that is just regretful enough to be polite and an excuse that he is still terribly busy, always so much to attend to at these holiday fests after all.

Perhaps later in the night, he tells himself. The good earth knows it’s been a long while since he last partook of any such traditional celebrations, but with Lobelia snapping at his heels and Tauriel waiting for him, it’s about the furthest thing from his mind right at this moment.

Speaking of his dear friend— a cheer goes up from the crowd, followed quickly by applause, and Bilbo turns to see that the band has left off their jaunty dancing tune and temporarily stepped back as the Mayor of Hobbiton joins them up on the wooden stage at one end of the dance floor. The sun has finally set in earnest, the very last sliver of red-gold disappearing behind the horizon, which means it is time for the true start of the festival. Bilbo can’t help the smile that spreads across his face now, Lobelia or no Lobelia; Tauriel’s part will be coming up soon, and he knows for a fact that he is hardly the only hobbit who looks forward to this day all year.

Mayor Goodbody holds her hands up, and then smiles long-sufferingly as the action elicits a round of hoots and hollers from the assembled hobbits instead of the silence she’d intended, but after a few calls of “Speech! Speech!” everyone finally quietens enough to allow her to open the Central West Farthing’s Ashseed Festival in earnest.

“Friends, neighbors, hobbits,” she begins, and then adds, with a glance over at the corner of the party field where Thorin Oakenshield and his retinue have ensconced themselves, a corner that Bilbo is startled to find he has drifted rather near to in his efforts to evade his Sackville-Baggins relations, “and esteemed guests: I’d like to welcome you all to our annual Ashseed party!” Mayor Goodbody throws her arms wide, smiling as the crowd once again breaks out into cheers and clapping. “I’m so glad you all could join us,” she goes on after a few moments, “both those of you local to Hobbiton and Bywater, and any of you who traveled from Waymeet and Frogmorton and even further abroad to join us!” She casts another look in the direction of the dwarves, and Bilbo sees from his spot nearby how the old white-haired one at the front of their group puffs up in pride, while the dwarrowdam – or so Bilbo _thinks_ , though experience rubbing shoulders with dwarves outside of the Shire has taught him how difficult it can be to tell their females from their males, as well as how terribly rude it’s considered in their culture to simply _assume_ one way or another – gives the Mayor a gracious nod at the acknowledgement, and the one youngster sitting amongst them looks quite pleased to be here, even if the other adults behind him are all rather dour in comparison. Their company is short a few members now, though, missing the dark-haired one who’d been staring at Tauriel so intently, along with a few others, who had broken off to go sit on their own.

“And of course,” Mayor Goodbody continues, pulling Bilbo’s thoughts back to the party and away from counting dwarves, “what brings us together is this season of Ashseed, when we burn the old to plant the new.” She waves a hand out past the dance floor and the buffet tables, to the multiple blazing bonfires in the fields beyond the hedgerow. Bilbo turns his head to look out there with the rest of the crowd, considers again those invitations he’s received, pondering if any are really worth the trouble of taking them up, before turning his attention back to the Mayor as she goes on with her speech. “This day is when we repledge ourselves to this earth which sustains us, to our Green Lady who cradles us and who brings forth life in an ever-turning cycle of new overtaking old, who in death gives us the materials to grow new life. Tonight we repledge ourselves to Her, to this great gift of growing things that She has given us, and to each other, to the knowledge that we, too, grow where the Green Lady plants us. Tonight, with the ashes of the old we pledge our hands and our hearts to the nurturing of the new, for one more year, should the Green Lady allow it.

“We have empty buckets here beside the stage,” the Mayor says then, finishing the traditional prayer and transitioning smoothly into the more practical business of the festival, “and I invite each of you to take one out to the bonfires and fill it with the sacred ash that will bless our fields tomorrow. And we of course have full buckets as well, here on the stage,” she goes on, gesturing to the row of containers hanging waist-high at regular intervals along the edge of the platform. “Those of you who are repledging today – or pledging for the first time! – please feel free to use the ash here, if you like.

“And _speaking_ of repledging!” she adds, her voice rising as an excited titter ripples through the crowd. Bilbo finds himself grinning along with the other spectators, knowing what's about to happen. “It has become our tradition in Hobbiton to renew our vow with our Guardian every Ashseed. Tauriel, if you’d like to come up to the stage,” Mayor Goodbody calls, smiling warmly and extending a hand out towards their resident elf.

Bilbo watches as the cheering, clapping crowd parts for his friend, standing head-and-shoulders taller than everyone else as usual. Tauriel ascends the stairs up to the stage with delicate steps and goes to stand beside the Mayor, already blushing lightly at so much attention focused on her. Her long red hair is now pulled into a neat bun at the back of her head and her dirks are temporarily stashed away, leaving her looking slighter than ever, especially next to the robust Daisy Goodbody.

“Tauriel,” Mayor Goodbody says, turning to her, putting special emphasis on the correct, elvish pronunciation of her name, lightening the _r_ in the second syllable, rather than their more slurred everyday accent. “For ten years now you have been our Guardian, our eyes and our ears in the wilds, the Protector of our borders. And our friend,” she adds, to cheers and whooping from the crowd. “And for ten years, we have promised each Ashseed to keep you as one of our own, to love you and house you and feed you as one of our own, to celebrate and mourn with you, to fight by your side if you call upon us, and to lean on your council in all things. Will you pledge yourself to us, and us to you, for an eleventh year? Will you be our Guardian again, Tauriel?”

Smiling broadly, though still blushing prettily, Tauriel takes the Mayor’s hand, and the assembly stills for her words, everyone listening just as attentively as Bilbo himself is. “I will, Mayor Goodbody. I pledge to be your eyes and ears in the wilds, the Protector at your borders, and the Guardian at your gate. I pledge to keep you as my own, and love you as my own, to celebrate and mourn with you, and give my considered council in all things. Until Ashseed next,” she adds the traditional words, grinning and arching an eyebrow, “when you shall have to ask me again.”

A cheer goes up from the crowd as Tauriel and Mayor Goodbody dip their hands into the nearest ash bucket, the elf leaning down so that they each can leave a sooty handprint on the other’s cheek. “And will you, Tauriel,” the Mayor asks then, smirking up at her, a spark of mischief in her eyes that Bilbo can see all the way back in the crowd as he is, “join us out in the fields this night?”

Tauriel’s blush is near as bright as her hair now, and she squeezes her eyes shut, though Bilbo notes she is still smiling. “No, but I thank you for the invitation,” she answers in a voice tight with laughter, to more hoots and whistling from the onlookers.

“Ah, well, perhaps next year,” Mayor Goodbody sighs, her disappointment all for show as she continues to smile up at Tauriel, who only blushes brighter still, sketches a quick bow, and steps down from the platform.

“And now we would open the stage – just as we open our hearts, our homes, and all that the world has to offer – to the new sprouts among us,” the Mayor says, her smile wide as she turns back to the crowd, the opening ceremony drawing to a close. “I invite all the little children to come forward and begin our tradition of sharing ash between us, marking all our loved ones with the sign of the old to welcome in the new!”

Barely has she finished speaking before the assembly seems to erupt with the pattering of tiny feet, every child under the age of ten rushing the stage, some followed by cooing parents and relations who hoist the smallest up under their arms in order for them to reach the buckets of ash along the stage. Bilbo recognizes one head of dark curly hair in the bunch, right at the front of the pack of laughing, chattering fauntlings, all of them reaching on tip-toe into the ash buckets and bringing back whole messy handfuls, with which they quickly dash over to first bless their favorite elf and Guardian, who has kindly seated herself upon the grass just by the stage specifically for the purposes of tiny, questing, sooty hands. Bilbo doesn’t even try to fight the delighted laugh that bubbles up his throat when Frodo is the first to launch himself full into Tauriel’s arms, leaving smears of ash across her shoulders and giggling when she dabs some of the soot from her own fingers onto the tip of his nose.  

Prim and Drogo can’t be far, Bilbo thinks, allowing himself a quick look around, but he doesn’t spot either of them nearby just yet. He’s had a few invitations out to the bonfires, yes, though none that particularly interested him. If Drogo and Prim wished to share the evening with him, though, well, that would certainly be something else. He shakes his head, smiling again at the children’s enthusiasm, as Frodo gives Tauriel one last hug before trotting away into the crowd, blackened hands reaching for any other adults he recognizes. Bilbo watches with fondness as Tauriel catches an incoming tackle-hug from a small girl, clutching her close and leaving her own long, elegant, sooty handprints against the girl’s dress, just as another child leaps at her from behind, more coming with ashy hands to imprint their love for Tauriel onto her skin, yet another in deep concentration as she inserts a handful of yellow daisies into the looping mass of Tauriel’s hair secured in its bun.

Feeling nostalgic and not a little old, Bilbo's smile falls into something a bit softer and more melancholy. A decade of her being their Guardian, of adventures in the wild, sleeping rough with Rangers and in finery in Imladris. A decade of the spirit of his beloved mother still in his life every day. A decade of being pushed out of himself, out of his comfortable hobbithole and into the wide world beyond his gate. A decade of her friendship and easy smiles and sharp wit. After all this time, he can’t imagine a life without Tauriel in it.

On the stage, Mayor Goodbody is calling over the increasing noise of the crowd, “I’d like to welcome any of you who are pledging tonight to the stage, the ash buckets are yours. And of course we have food and drink, a good, level dance floor, and a band just dying to start this party. So here’s to our fields and our harvests, our friends and our lovers, to our children and our seedlings, our bonfires, and our Green Lady. Happy Ashseed, everyone!”

Pandemonium seems to break out at the end of the speech, hobbits chatting and going for food, the band striking up a fast dance tune from the back of the stage, couples taking to the dance floor and the ash buckets alike. Through the sudden press of bodies, Bilbo catches a quick glimpse of Tauriel, still happily ensconced in several layers of ash-smeared children. Shaking his head and smiling again, he turns away, in the direction of the buffet tables. Best get there before everyone gets too sooty.

His time spent winding through the crowd to avoid Lobelia has left him pushed off to one side, down by the dessert spread at the very end of the buffet, and the crowd of hobbits all jostling for space leaves his chances of reaching the proper dinner courses any time soon close to nil, and so Bilbo sighs, takes up his plate, and resigns himself to the sorry fate of simply having to dive directly into dessert.

Lobelia’s still out there somewhere, of course, and even if she’s been temporarily distracted, she’ll come looking for him again soon enough, so best to look as busy and inconspicuous as possible. He’ll have to face her eventually, but putting it off for as long as possible continues to seem like the wisest course of action – especially on Ashseed of all days. _Lopattenin indeed,_ he thinks sourly, scooping a piece of strawberry shortcake onto his plate.

“Ye seem distracted."

The unfamiliar voice makes him start, until he remembers that his evasive maneuvers have brought him closer to the dwarven contingent than expected. They are only a few tables away now, not addressing him but well within hearing range, even with the chatter of the crowd around them. Well, within a hobbit’s hearing range, anyway. Their ears may have nothing on an elf’s, but hobbits apparently hear a great deal more than both humans and dwarves.

“Mm,” a second voice grunts, confirming the first dwarf's assertion and making Bilbo smile to himself as he feigns intense interest in the various pies and tarts at this end of the table, keeping his head down and hopefully out of Lobelia's line of sight.

“Oh for Durin's sake, just ask him to dance!”

“I— What?!”

Bilbo jumps again at the outburst and sneaks a glance over towards the dwarves: the enormous bald one is leaning against the edge of their table, bulging arms folded over his chest as he addresses the dark haired one sitting down next to him, the one Tauriel had identified as their king.

“Ye've been staring at tha' little halfling bloke ever since we walked in the gate," the bald one goes on, looking much more like a put-upon friend than a servant, not at all the way Bilbo would expect dwarves to address their rulers.

"I—" The King balks, and then piercing blue eyes meet Bilbo's for just a moment, something like lightning lancing through him before they both jerk their gazes away. Bilbo feels his face begin to heat as he stares down at what's left of Merrigold Hobbs' perfect little boysenberry pie on the buffet table, listening as the dwarven king protests, "No I haven't."

The bald one scoffs. “I'm surprised he hasn't burst into flames, the way you're looking at him.”

Bilbo's rather surprised too, come to think of it – the weight of the King's gaze on the back of his neck is unmistakable now, making the heat of his flush climb up towards his ears.

“Dwalin...”

"It's a party, Thorin. You're supposed to dance," the bald dwarf goes on, the smirk plainly evident in his voice. Then, quieter, in almost a stage whisper, he adds, "He's exactly yer type, too."

Oh no, he is most _definitely_ blushing now. Bilbo keeps his eyes firmly on the table, fiddling with his plate and making as though he’s trying to choose between a few different platters of fruit crumpets, desperate not to let the dwarves know that he's overheard them, much less that he knows they're talking about him! That brief moment of eye contact was nearly more than he could take, and, really, when it comes down to it, Bilbo wouldn't say no to an offer to dance right about now, if only to keep him away from Lobelia's grasping talons for a bit longer.

It's not as though he doesn't have his objections – the dwarves were certainly rude enough back at the gate, defensive and clearly spoiling for a fight, but if his journeys outside the Shire have taught Bilbo anything, it's not to take such first impressions too personally. Any number of things can get lost or misunderstood in a meeting of different cultures, and it's perfectly natural to be on one's guard when surrounded by strangers in a strange land. And who better than Bilbo Baggins, professional adventurer and all around unrespectable gentlehobbit, to reach out to them and introduce them to the ways of the Shire?

It certainly doesn't hurt that their king is so very handsome, either. No, Bilbo would absolutely not say no to an invitation onto the dance floor from him, he thinks, stealing another glance over towards said king – and finding his gaze met by that intense blue one again. Might as well just go up and do the asking himself, in fact—

Thorin Oakenshield makes a sound of disgust in the back of his throat as he turns to scowl up at his companion. "As if I'd have anything to do with these dirty little food-growers," he snaps, shoving to his feet and making to stomp away, though not without one last stormy glare in Bilbo's direction.

Well!

He turns away from their table, trying to put their conversation out of his mind like a bad taste in his mouth. Hoping to avoid both Lobelia _and_ the snobby King Under the Mountain now, he takes a circuitous route through the party back to his and Tauriel’s high table, scouting for her through milling hobbits as he carries his over-laden plate. He spies her standing again, peppered in soot over every visible inch, and for just a moment he relaxes at the familiar sight of her profile.

But the moment passes as she shoots him a quick look, apparently having spotted him as well, her gaze tense, reminding Bilbo sharply of the other day in the market. Suddenly worried, Bilbo cranes his neck to catch sight of who she is talking to, and sees no less than four dwarves facing her, each standing several inches taller than the hobbits around them. He abandons his dessert plate on the closest table, to the delighted exclamations of the group of tweens sitting there, and hurries over to where Tauriel still stands near the stage.

If these four are as haughty as that Thorin Oakenshield of theirs, he absolutely will not leave Tauriel to face them on her own!

 

* * *

 

It’d taken some battlefield strategy to find the best location, but eventually Fíli, Bifur, and Bofur had squirreled Kíli away at a table set far back against the hedgerow, distant enough from where their Uncle and Mother had settled themselves to not be in their line of sight, should Kíli take to staring at the elf again.

Which he is, of course. Because this is Fíli’s life now.

He thanks Mahal again for making him without the need of a One. Because this, honestly? Completely ridiculous.

“Kíli,” he says, pushing on his brother’s shoulder. “Kíli. Kíli, _stop staring at the elf_ ,” he hisses when his brother won’t look his way.

“I thought I’d never see her again,” Kíli chokes out. Fíli’s starting to worry about how long it’s been since Kee last blinked.

“She left for five minutes,” Fíli says, rolling his eyes. “With all our weapons, which _should_ be what you’re more upset about.” It’s certainly what _he’s_ most upset about. A good half-dozen of his favorite knives at least, to say nothing of Deathless and Wolfsbane and all the other weapons, and who knows where a she-elf would hide dwarven-made arms in a place like this. They’d only stopped dancing when Kíli noticed she had left her post at the party’s entrance, his sudden panic necessitating a quick retreat from the dance floor between songs. He’d calmed down upon catching sight of her again, now seated at the sole human-height table in the whole place, with that hobbit who had settled things between her and Thorin at the gate before they could escalate into an actual international incident.

At least the ale is good, and the music is reasonably danceable. That’s about all Fíli has going for his mood at the moment.

He watches Kíli watch the elf as she slips away from her table and off into the crowd, and Durin’s bloody hammer there is a _high-pitched whine_ coming from his brother’s throat, assaulting Fíli’s ears and grating on his nerves. He sighs heavily, then swings an arm over Kíli’s shoulders none too gently, pulling him into his side and cutting off the growing wail. “Try to relax, would you?” he suggests, teeth gritted behind his smile. “She’s here, she’s not going anywhere, and you’ll be able to tell if she does—”

“But what if she _does?_ We’re not half an hour from the Great Road, she could leave at any time!”

There has to be some kind of award for older siblings of those who have just found their One, a braid or a bead he could put in his hair to show that he endured this war on his patience. “ _If_ she did, you’d know which direction she’d gone in,” he says, giving Kíli a little shake. “Besides, I think she lives here, in the Shire. That hobbit said she’s their guardian or something.”

“He did? I wasn’t listening. I was a bit distracted.”

Fíli sighs and releases him, picking up his tankard and taking a long drink before speaking. “Of course you were.”

“Ah, it’s completely normal,” Bofur says, smiling and bumping his own tankard against Fíli’s. “Why, I remember when Bombur and Mesma first met. Didn’t take their eyes off each other for a solid week!”

“Oh, Mahal,” Fíli groans, covering his face with his hands. He won’t survive a week of this. He simply will not. Beside him, Kíli has begun whining again, resonating like a goblet of the finest cut crystal. Fíli’s not even sure he knows he’s doing it. “Just, take a breath. Drink some ale, listen to the music–” Up on stage, the band’s latest song abruptly winds down, the musicians stepping back as a hobbit woman climbs onto the platform with them and begins addressing the crowd. Fíli sighs again. “Well, drink some ale, anyway.”

Kíli, of course, doesn’t move, and so Bifur very helpfully reaches across the table and pushes the last tankard into Kíli’s hand, even going so far as to wrap the younger dwarf’s fingers around the handle and nudge it up towards his face. Kíli drinks automatically, the whining noise cutting off briefly while he swallows, all without ever taking his eyes from the elf where she stands all the way on the other side of the party. Great, all they have to do is keep Kíli drinking steadily for the rest of his life, and everything will be fine. No dwarf has ever died from over-consumption of ale, after all.

The phrase _esteemed guests_ reaches Fíli’s ears as the hobbit on stage continues her speech, giving a significant look over toward Amad and Uncle, and Fíli sinks lower in his chair, hoping she won’t spot them as well and draw attention to their location. But with one more nod in Balin’s direction, she moves on to talking about bonfires and ash and sproutlings and things Fíli really isn’t drunk enough to sit through at the moment. He takes another long drink and guides Kíli into doing the same.

“And _speaking_ of repledging!” the hobbit on stage calls, over what Fíli realizes with dawning horror are the collective giggles of the crowd. “It has become our tradition in Hobbiton to renew our vow with our Guardian every Ashseed. Tauriel, if you’d like to come up to the stage.”

A general cheer goes up around them, hobbits at nearby tables clapping and standing to stamp their feet as well. And through all that hubbub walks Kíli’s ginger elf, straight to the hobbit woman’s side. Kíli gives a start, half-jumping to his feet as if to follow her, and Bofur and Fíli both reach to yank him back down by his coat. The whining starts up anew as Kíli turns wide, betrayed brown eyes on him.

“Well, now at least you know her name,” Fíli offers with a shrug. Kíli does not look at all pacified, especially when the elf – Tauriel – seems to exchange some form of vow with the hobbit official leading things on the stage.

“Is she— is she _marrying_ them?!” Kíli gasps, hand batting frantically at Fíli’s arm. “ _All of them?_ ”

“No more than I’m married to you, lad,” Bofur replies on a chuckle, as Fíli smacks Kíli’s hand away. “I think it’s more of a warrior’s pledge, listen.”

It certainly does sound like a warrior’s pledge, Fíli thinks, like the fealty oaths Dwalin and all the others swore to Thorin and their family, though a fair bit more flowery than anything dwarves usually bother with.

Kíli is quiet as they finish the exchange of vows up on the stage, and his smile seems to have returned when Fíli glances at him again – though blinking more than once a minute is still beyond him, apparently. “I knew it,” he breathes then, sounding almost drunk with bliss.

“What’s that, lad?” Bofur asks, grinning in return and ignoring Fíli’s glower in his direction.

Kíli glances briefly at his bodyguard, his gaze dreamy and smile looking like he’s had far too much pipeweed. “She _is_ a warrior, just like I thought, noble, and brave, and perf—”

“Will you shut up if we let you go talk to her?” Fíli cuts in, dropping his head into his hands, desperate to just put an end to this.

Kíli’s face lights up like the dawn as he snaps his gaze over to Fíli at last. “Really?! You mean it?!”

“Yes, _but_ —” Fíli makes another grab for Kíli’s coat when his brother starts to rush to his feet again, pulling him down until they are nearly nose to nose. “Remember what we talked about earlier – we _can’t_ draw attention to ourselves, not if we don’t want Uncle and Mother breathing down our necks. Uncle very nearly drew on her back at the gate, and Mam wasn’t all that far behind. I know she’s your One, Kíli, but you have got to remember that she’s also an elf!”

Kíli scowls, shaking Fíli’s hand off as he straightens. “And so what if she’s elf?” he demands, sounding suddenly irritated. “You keep saying that, but it’s not going to change anything, and Mam and Uncle will just have to get used to it—”

“I’m _saying_ ,” Fíli cuts across him once more, “that’s she’s _not_ a dwarf, meaning you can’t just walk up to her and declare your undying love and expect everything to work itself out from there.” Kíli pauses, blinking in dawning realization, and Fíli sighs. “Come on, Kee, I know Amad talked to you about this.”

“Well... yeah…” Kíli hedges, frowning down at his boots. “It’s just… she’s _right there_ , Fee, finally, after all this time. Right—” He casts a look heavy with yearning over towards the stage once more, and then blanches, eyes going wide as he searches the space that is now suddenly devoid of elves. “Where did she go?!”

Fíli rises to his feet as well, and Bifur and Bofur both follow suit, all of them searching frantically for the wayward elf maid. He hears Bifur snort a quiet laugh beside him and glances over at his guard, questioning.

 _At the foot of the dais_ , Bifur signs, looking dryly amused at the younger dwarves’ antics. _Under the avalanche of pebbles._

They all follow Bifur’s gaze, and sure enough, there’s a flash of coppery hair in the lantern light, the elf’s slender form just visible in the flat-trodden grass before the stage where she sits absolutely _covered_ in clinging hobbit children. Her face is a bit smudged with soot now, as are all of the children hanging off of her, but she looks perfectly happy, and Fíli very distinctly feels Kíli relax beside him when she lets out a light, ringing laugh at something one of the little hobbits says.

“There, ya see, lad,” Bofur says, clapping a hand on Kíli’s shoulder, “she hasn’t gone anywhere. And she’s such a great protector to these lands that even the little ‘uns love her!”

“Yeah,” Kíli sighs happily, sounding far away and hazy once more. “I told you she’s perfect.”

Fíli huffs long-sufferingly and rolls his eyes again before turning back to his brother. “Okay, look. That hobbit earlier said that she holds some sort of official guardian position here, and all that stuff with the vows just now seems to seal it – so we’ll go talk to her as representatives of Erebor, like we’re just trying to smooth things over after the way Thorin and Dwalin and all of them acted at the gate. And then _maybe_ you can ask to see her again, but you can’t come on too strong, okay?”

“Okay,” Kíli answers automatically, without so much as a glance in Fíli’s direction, and Fíli can only sigh, shake his head, and start the long walk around the dance floor towards the elf.

It’s slow going, as several hobbits hail them as they pass, including, he’s pleased to note, more than a few of those Fíli has already danced with, who call out greetings and invitations for him to join them once more. Some of the redheads Kíli had been assigned to also smile and wave at them, and Fíli has to nudge his brother in the ribs to tear his eyes away from his elf and actually acknowledge the other people around him. That was the whole point of this, after all: to hide Kíli’s One amongst so many others who match her general description – with just a few key differences, of course – so that none of the rest of the Company will catch on until they’ve found a way to soften the news, to ease them all into it and hopefully avoid any sort of explosion from their King and High Princess.

The children have begun to disperse by the time they reach the stage. The elf seems to see them coming, as she rises quickly to her feet, expression serious but her stance at least a little more easy than when she’d challenged them at the gate. Her dirks are missing now as well, but Fíli knows enough of the horrors of Mirkwood and those who live and train there to know that her apparent relaxation means little: a wood elf soldier could still probably be dangerous armed with nothing more than a dinner plate.

“Good evening,” Fíli smiles up at her, turning up the charm. They stop a few feet from her, Kíli at his side and Bifur and Bofur both hanging back behind them so as not to spook her. This is supposed to be a friendly meeting, both in terms of their cover story and their true purpose in speaking to her; they don’t want her to feel as though she’s been surrounded and backed into a corner.

“Happy Ashseed,” the elf answers neutrally, repeating the same well-wishes that the hobbit who’d led the ceremony earlier had issued to the crowd. Her eyes flick to Bifur and Bofur, taking in their superior numbers, before switching between Fíli and then Kíli – where her gaze lingers for a second longer, turning just a touch thoughtful. Kíli stands a bit straighter under her scrutiny, smiling up at her like she hung the moon and all the stars herself, but at least he doesn’t start whining again.

“I am Fíli, son of Víli,” Fíli says, giving a small bow when the elf looks at him once more, greeting her as an equal, “Crown Prince of Erebor, at your service. And this is my brother...” He leaves the sentence hanging, expecting Kíli to take up his own introduction as he usually does, but then glances over at his brother’s glazed, worshipful face when they are greeted only with silence.

After a moment, Kíli blinks, breaking his intense study of the elf’s face as he seems to realize they’re all waiting on him. “Oh, um...”

“...Kíli,” Fíli supplies, and turns his blandest smile on Tauriel. If they all simply refuse to acknowledge Kíli’s love-struck blunders, it’s almost like they’re not even happening.

“Right,” Kíli says, grinning wide in momentary embarrassment before looking up at the elf again, eager as a puppy, “and you’re Tauriel—”

“We quite enjoyed that ceremony a few minutes ago,” Fíli cuts in when the elf seems to tense again at Kíli’s words. She looks at him once more, wary but standing still at least. “And it occurred to us, hearing your name then,” he adds, and refuses to look at his brother, refuses to send him the meaningful look he so deserves, the one that says _remember what we talked about, about not coming on too strong, not overwhelming her, remember?!_ “That we hadn’t properly introduced ourselves when we’d first arrived.”

“Of course,” Tauriel answers after a moment’s hesitation, her stance easing once more. “I am Tauriel, daughter of Limindil,” she says, giving a small bow in answer to Fíli’s, and then her mouth twists with a smile as she straightens, “most recently of the Shire.”

“But you’re originally from Mirkwood?” Kíli asks. Tauriel’s brows rise in surprise and Kíli flushes, quickly correcting himself, “Er, I mean, Greenwood…”

Fíli half expects the elf to take offense at the derogatory name for her forest, but instead she smiles again, small and a little sad. “Mirkwood is unfortunately a fitting name for it now,” she murmurs, gaze dropping. “There was a shadow growing there and very little love left beneath its boughs when I was last there.”

“You left,” Kíli breathes abruptly, sounding heartbroken and almost, not quite, but very nearly _betrayed_ , “years ago.” Tauriel’s eyes snap up to his again, widening once more in surprise. He starts to say something more, but Fíli _very subtly_ elbows him in the ribs, hard enough to hurt, cutting him off. It would have been just about twenty years ago, that stretch of days when Kíli had been all but climbing the walls in his distress and panic as he felt his One moving further away than ever before – but telling the elf that here and now is exactly what they’re trying to avoid.

“I did,” Tauriel replies, addressing Kíli, smile turning polite and brittle. “I served Lord Thranduil before going to live among the Rangers for a time,” she says, “and then I eventually found my way here.” Her smile warms then, growing gentle and genuine once more as she casts her eyes around at the green rolling hills that frame the party field, “And once you are here, it is quite easy to fall in love with the Shire, and never want to leave.”

Kíli’s head bobs as he hangs on her every word, making as though to follow her gaze without ever actually looking away from her.

“It is beautiful country,” Fíli agrees, just to keep from falling into more awkward silence in which Kíli continues to stare openly at the elf. This has got to be the single longest conversation of Fíli’s life. This is his fate, stuck in an endless cycle of awkward small talk with his brother and his as-yet-unawares One, doomed to continue to use more words to say absolutely nothing at all. There is no saving him, for it has eaten him body and soul. “Different from the Lonely Mountain, of course, but gem-like in its own right. Very… green.”

“You are seeing the Shire at its best,” Tauriel says, eyes flicking briefly to Fíli’s face before returning to rest on Kíli’s, as if he was the one who spoke. Great forges, they’re both as bad as each other. “Everything is growing and blooming at this time of year. This season and when the leaves change in the fall, those are my favorite,” she says, and then blinks, eyes widening, before giving them a tight smile, as though she has embarrassed herself.

“I should like to see that as well,” Kíli says eagerly, earnestly. “The leaves must turn gold and red and copper, just like your hair.”

Tauriel’s eyes widen again, a light blush painting her cheeks under her freckles and soot before she smiles shyly down at Kíli. “That’s a fairly accurate description of the palette,” she manages after a moment.

Elves don’t know soulmates, it’s not the way they were built in the Creation, Fíli knows that. But maybe, just maybe, there’s something here already. Maybe they won’t have to start completely from nothing, not with the way these two are already looking at each other. Interesting.

“Do you plan to linger here through the fall, then?” Tauriel asks, apparently attempting to pull herself back to some semblance of professional formality, though her gaze still holds Kíli’s for a moment too long.

“Until the end of the summer, most likely,” Fíli answers quickly, before Kíli can say something like _forever_ , or _until you love me_. “We’re at our Uncle’s whim, of course,” he lies smoothly. “And speaking of, we thought we ought to apologize for some of the others in our party. We are _very_ far from home, as you noted earlier,” he says with a smile that is just a touch self-deprecating, just enough to be charming, “and some among us can come off a bit…”

“Prickly,” Kíli supplies, grinning.

“Plenty of prickliness to go around in a first meeting of cultures,” a new voice says from Kíli’s other side, and they both look over as the same hobbit who’d intervened at the gate steps up between Kíli and Tauriel.

“Oh, Bilbo,” Tauriel says, smiling down at the little fellow, and Fíli glances up at her again at the audible relief in her voice. “This is Prince Kíli and Prince Fíli, of Erebor,” she tells him, gesturing to each of them in turn. “We… _encountered_ them on their way into the party, I’m sure you remember.”

“Yes, of course. You two must be the princes all the gossip is about,” the hobbit says, turning to them with an outstretched hand and a smile that is all sharp edges. “Bilbo Baggins of Bag End. A _pleasure_ to meet you both,” he says and grasps their hands in a firm shake rather than bowing. “And your two companions?” Bilbo asks, folding his hands behind his back, and though his smile is polite, his eyes are narrowed on Fíli’s face, his gaze far too perceptive for a simple country farmer.

“Oh, don’t mind us, Master Hobbit,” Bofur says cheerily, leaning forward a little into their circle. “I’m Bofur, and this is my cousin Bifur—”

 _I can and will rip you limb from limb if you try anything, half-man_ , Bifur signs.

“He says hello,” Bofur goes on blithely. “Doesn’t speak much, you know, though he understands Westron as well as any of us. We’re just hanging about to make sure these two,” he slings his arms around Fíli and Kíli’s necks, pulling them into an awkward sideways hug, “don’t get up to too much mischief. You know how it is with younguns,” he finishes, with an exaggerated wink down at the hobbit.

Mister Baggins snorts, but his gaze seems to soften marginally at last. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he says, before turning back to Fíli and Kíli. “So, Erebor. That is quite a distance. Have you lot ever been to the west country before, then?”

“Never been farther west than the edge of the Greenwood myself,” Kíli says, still grinning up at Tauriel like the besotted idiot he is, despite answering the hobbit’s question. “Oh, I’ve traveled before,” he assures her at her questioning look, almost as an aside, and Fíli swallows a groan, “to our kin in the Iron Hills and south into Esgaroth, just never west before. Everything this side of the Misty Mountains is so _green_ ,” he adds, though his gaze has yet to stray from her face.

Tauriel smiles and Mister Baggins chuckles, and suddenly Fíli has an idea. There is a way out of this torment, if only everyone else will cooperate. “You know,” he says, drawing their attention back to him, “it would be truly wonderful to learn our way around the Shire from someone who knows it so well.” He looks up at Tauriel, willing her to play along, to accept, and feels Kíli begin to thrum with excitement at his side as he catches on. “Would you do us the honor, Lady Tauriel?”

Tauriel blinks, momentarily taken aback, but then smiles again when Kíli cries, “Oh, please, won’t you?”

“We’d be happy to show you around,” Bilbo Baggins says, and Fíli just catches the quick look the two of them exchange, though its meaning is beyond him. “What do you say to tomorrow, bright and early?”

“Yes!” Kíli enthuses, still staring up at the elf.

“That sounds fine,” Fíli answers more sedately, a little annoyed at this nosy hobbit inserting himself into his plans and wondering exactly what his relationship is to his brother’s One. “Should we just meet you here tomorrow, or…?”

“Why not at the bridge near Nether— Oof! Well hello there, lad,” Bilbo greets the bundle of giggling hobbit child that has just run directly into his legs, leaving sooty handprints across his clothing that he doesn’t seem to pay any mind to. Baggins lifts the boy easily into his arms, face brightening further when two more hobbits amble up to join them. “Ah, Prim! Drogo! Happy Ashseed!”

“Happy Ashseed, Bilbo,” the woman answers, leaning in to drop a quick kiss to his cheek and a handprint on the sleeve of his shirt before smiling up at Tauriel as well. “Happy Ashseed, Tauriel,” she says and reaches out to grasp the elf’s hand briefly, leaving more ash behind.

“The little footbridge we crossed to get into Hobbiton?” Fíli prompts, attempting to pull Bilbo’s attention back to him.

“Yes, yes, that’s the one,” Baggins answers, all but waving him off. “Oh, where are my manners? These are my cousins, Primula Brandybuck and Drogo Baggins. And this little one is—” he says, scrubbing a hand through the child’s dark curls, earning a happy squeal in return as he squirms out of Bilbo’s arms again.

“Frodo Brandybuck Baggins Baggins,” the boy announces before Bilbo can speak again, and then sticks his tiny hand out towards Fíli in a mimicry of the older hobbit’s greeting.

“You only need to say one Baggins, Frodo,” Drogo laughs, ruffling his hair again as Fíli very carefully shakes his hand, using only his thumb and forefinger.

“I know, but I like saying the whole thing,” Frodo giggles up at his father, or so Fíli assumes, with such a strong resemblance between them. Dark hair and bright blue eyes, practically hobbitish versions of the Line of Durin, he thinks with a smile.

“Are you two planning on visiting the bonfires tonight?” Bilbo asks Drogo, as, on his other side, Primula helps to hoist Frodo up so he can ride on Tauriel’s shoulders, the three of them laughing and joyous and making Fíli suddenly very aware of what a family-oriented event they’ve intruded upon.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, then, Mister Baggins, Lady Tauriel,” Fíli says, bowing again and turning to tug Kíli away.

“Right, right, tomorrow,” Bilbo answers absently, and gives a sort of distracted wave as the dwarves retreat.

“Come on, Kee,” Fíli murmurs, a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder as they turn to walk back towards their table, though Kíli’s gaze remains on Tauriel for as long as possible.

“But—” Kíli starts, voice edging up towards a mournful whine already.

“ _Tomorrow_ ,” Fíli emphasizes. “You’ll see her first thing tomorrow, and then you’ll get to spend the whole day with her. And hey, maybe if you put on a good enough show dancing with every _other_ ginger here, you can even go ask Tauriel to dance a time or two as well.”

“You think?” Kíli asks, eyes shining with hope when he looks over at him.

“Sure, why not,” Fíli shrugs. “You’ve already talked to her once, so if anyone gets suspicious you can just say you were being polite. You know,” he bumps his shoulder against his brother’s as they walk, smirking when Kíli glances at him again, “ _improving diplomatic relations_.”

Kíli smiles at that and only looks at her over his shoulder a few more times as they return to their table, their drinks still waiting for them.

“Me, I just want to relax, have some more ale, and maybe go sit out by these bonfires the halflings keep going on about,” Fíli sighs – only to be met with a coughing fit from Bofur on one side and Bifur’s deep, growling laugh on the other. “What?” Fíli asks, looking around at his guard.

 _The hobbits don’t mean to **sit** by the fire,_ he signs, the gesture for ‘sit’ rendered large and forceful for emphasis.

“Have you not glanced out there all evening?” Bofur asks, somewhere between aghast and delighted at Fíli’s apparent ignorance.

“No… why?” He looks then as they near the hedgerow, peering between the branches of greenery out into the field lit only by the bonfires dotting the darkened space. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust, night vision kicking in once he’s turned away from the lights of the party, and then… Then he sees them.

Writhing bodies litter the grass around the bonfires, in pairs and threesomes, and not a few little piles of indeterminate numbers, clothes scattered about everywhere, smudges of black soot trailing across swaths of bare skin…

“They did say it’s a fertility festival,” Bofur chuckles, clapping him on the shoulder.

“And they… they wanted Tauriel… to join them…” Kíli murmurs beside him, voice small and horrified.

“Oh, aye,” Bofur nods. “Just trying to be inclusive, I’d think. Why, I’ve had a few offers myself, but I figured I probably shouldn’t leave you to your own devices at a time like this,” he says, winking at Kíli.

“Yeah…” Fíli murmurs, turning back towards the dance floor and slumping down in his seat. He stares out at the twirling halflings, who seem suddenly far less innocent, far less proper…

“I even had one lad assure me they know quite well how to prevent pregnancy when it’s not wanted – thought I was a lady, apparently!” Bofur goes on, cheerful as ever. “And his mood wasn’t dampened one bit when he found out I wasn’t. Good looking lad, too, once you get past the whole beardlessness thing,” he muses.

Fíli makes eye contact with one of the hobbit women he’d danced with earlier out in the main action of the party. Honeysuckle Something-or-other. She smiles her sweet, sweet smile at him, her golden hair glowing in the lantern light, and he remembers her earlier insinuations about leaving the dance floor in favor of a spot by the bonfires.

“You can keep an eye on Kíli, right?” he asks Bofur, and ignores Kíli’s indignant, “Hey!”

“‘Course!” Bofur answers.

“Bifur,” Fíli says then, turning to his guard. The older dwarf gives him a flat look, one brow raised under the deep gash scar of his old head wound. Fíli grins. “You’ve got the rest of the night off!”

He takes one last swig of his ale and pushes to his feet once more, striding over to meet Miss Honeysuckle where she waits for him.

His evening just got a whole lot better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yall have now seen the tip of the iceberg of the AU world-building we've done for this story, and as the plot progresses we'll be seeing more hobbit festivals, all based around the [Wheel of the Year](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wheel_of_the_Year) (Ashseed being an analogue for Beltane/May Day, which yes, is indeed a fertility festival ;) ), and even a few dwarven holidays as well! 
> 
> Khuzdul Terms  
> ‘Alanurt nurtuênâdê - Today is my birthday  
> Mên ‘urganê - You are my greatest pride  
> Shosh - shush  
> Tusr'uzghû Uzbâd - Chess (aka Kings’ Strategy, lit. ‘battle plan of kings’)
> 
> Sindarin Terms  
> Ered Luin - Blue Mountains  
> Imladris - Rivendell  
> Lopattenin - rabbits  
> Mellon nin - my friend


	4. Peace and Quiet and Good Tilled Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In springtime, love is carried on the breeze. Watch out for flying passion or kisses whizzing by your head._
> 
> -Emma Racine deFleur, famed hobbitish poet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when we said future chapters wouldn’t be as long as Ashseed was… that was apparently a lie. Please enjoy another ridiculously long chapter because holy crap we are not doing this next time. Seriously.

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She drifts slowly up from sleep with the grey light of dawn, as usual, and finds herself smiling as she comes to full wakefulness, stretching against her soft sheets. Ashseed Morn, with the smell of the bonfires still clinging to her hair and soot on her pillowcase, and far less hungover than in years past, thank the Valar – and the day she is to take the dwarven princes on a tour of Hobbiton and the surrounding area. The air is crisp with the sort of coolness that promises midday warmth, the sun poised to ring in the start of summer in grand fashion.

As she goes about her morning ablutions, washing her face and arms of lingering soot once again, that smile continues to tug at the corner of her lips. When Bilbo agreed to escort the princes around the Shire last night, she’d been quite nearly dreading the idea of spending a whole day with visiting foreign royalty. But as the night went on and her friends and neighbors persuaded her into one or two more tankards of ale, she had found herself not infrequently in the dwarves’ boisterous, joyful company. They seemed to fit in easily amongst the hobbits, grasping the jubilant nature of the holiday and picking up the steps to country dances quickly, drinking and singing and dancing with the rest.

The dark-haired prince and the two guards, at least. The Crown Prince, on the other hand, had spent most of the evening... Well. Cultural exchange at its finest, she supposes, with a smirk she can’t quite repress, as she dresses for a day of foot travel through the civilized quarters of the West Farthing.

The younger prince, though – Kíli, he had said his name was – stayed near the dance floor throughout the party, long after his brother found his way out to the fields, and had still been there when Tauriel and Bilbo had finally made their stumbling, swaying ways home. He caught her eye with a smile and a toast of his tankard as they neared the gate, and in her slight inebriation she had, she remembers now, returned it with a smile of her own and a sloppy salute as Bilbo tugged on her other hand, half executing a dance step while she wasn’t looking.

She can feel herself blush, thinking back on the evening’s antics, but can’t quite bring herself to be truly embarrassed about it. Prince Kíli had asked her to dance more than a few times throughout the night, and was actually tall enough to carry on a conversation with her while doing so, unlike most of her hobbit neighbors. He’d danced passingly well and didn’t step on the toes of her shoes – and nor did she have to worry about treading on his feet, for once, ensconced as they were in steel-tipped boots.

Tauriel hadn’t expected to feel so light this morning, so much like a spring breeze in the treetops, but here she is, near to grinning as she pulls on her boots and prepares to leave Ithil Galad for Bag End and a day full of _dwarves_. Bilbo told her he would plan out a route for their tour of the West Farthing, no doubt to include frequent stops for meals. She smiles to herself, shaking her head as she straps her dirks into place across her shoulders, leaving the rest of her weaponry behind in her house as is her custom when not out patrolling the borderlands. As much as Bilbo _can_ survive on less food when out in the wilds, he still much prefers the traditional hobbitish life, and sometimes seems to indulge even more in the days just after returning from an adventure, as though making up for the meals he’d missed while they traveled. And Tauriel must admit, there is little point in living in privation when there is plenty to go around and friendly neighbors with whom to share. That is one thing she has learned in her time living amongst the hobbits, something that doesn’t always seem to register against the whole breadth of immortality among her own kind: working to bring in the harvest or set up stores for winter is one thing, but otherwise life is simply meant to be enjoyed.

She pulls her hair away from her face with a few quick braids, suddenly anxious to be on her way, but then pauses for a moment in the round, open doorway at the front of her house – simply because she can, standing tall in its center to survey the world immediately beyond her gate. Hers is the one home in the whole of the Shire built with ‘Big Folk’ in mind, as the hobbits who had originally helped erect her smial had commented endlessly, though it was always with a sort of teasing affection, since by that point the inhabitants of Hobbiton had quite solidly claimed her as _their_ Big Person. She smiles out at the rolling hills that fall away from her doorstep and the forest at her back, everything cast in dewy silver and gold as the sun rises behind her, and takes a moment to savor the stillness of the morning. The rest of their day will be filled with the usual energy of the Shire in summer – and will almost certainly involve trying to fold herself into the low chairs at the Green Dragon and other popular spots Bilbo will want to visit.

Pulling closed the big red door for which her home is named, she makes her way out past her little garden and hip-height gate toward the path that leads into Hobbiton, looking over her shoulder just once to watch as Ithil Galad slides behind the crest of the hill, the door like a summer moonset until it disappears from view. It’s a short, familiar stroll to Bilbo’s home, through the thicket that hides Ithil Galad and across the northern road out of Hobbiton, crossing fields and meadows until the Hill comes into view. The morning is still cool, the sun only barely risen, but already, soot-streaked hobbits are beginning to emerge in the sort of quiet, sleepy activity that Tauriel has come to associate with the mornings after festivals, some coming from their homes and others from a night spent out in the fields after the party. She returns their waves and smiles and wishes for a happy Ashseed as her long strides carry her to Bilbo’s door.

Tauriel knocks once and then lets herself in just as Bilbo’s cheery greeting drifts up from somewhere further back in the hobbithole. She’s slipping off her boots in the foyer when he comes padding out, dressed in shirt and trousers but with his patchwork dressing gown still thrown over top, hair mussed and a cup of tea in hand as he blinks a bit blearily up at her.

“Oh, you’re not ready to go,” Tauriel says, dismayed, and follows him when he turns to lead the way back into the kitchen.

“We’ve time enough for first breakfast,” Bilbo yawns, waving her off and into her usual chair, still a little smaller than the furniture in her own house but at least taller than the rest of the hobbit-sized seats.

“You did tell them ‘bright and early,’” she reminds him, taking her seat at the table.

“My dear, there is early for you, and then there is early for me,” he says, pouring her a cup of tea. “And then there’s early for a bunch of dwarves who drank as much hobbitish ale as they did last night.”

Tauriel grins despite her own memories of miserable mornings following Shire festivities, adding cream to her tea but none of the honey Bilbo has set out. “I considered warning them…”

“And yet you didn’t,” Bilbo smirks, back at the hob, where he has eggs and bangers and bacon frying, in addition to the heaping platter of scones and toast already on the table. “Not that that much drink seemed to trip them up on the dance floor,” he adds lightly. “How many times did that Prince Kíli ask you to dance last night? Three, four?”

“Something like that,” Tauriel mumbles into her tea, feeling herself start to blush. It is a bit surreal to think of how she’d passed the previous evening. She’s hardly exchanged more than a dozen friendly words with any dwarf in the past, much less _danced_ with one. But that was exactly how the festival night had gone: Prince Kíli had made the rounds of the dance floor time and again, and every few revolutions he would find his way back to Tauriel.

“Would that all dwarves were as friendly as your Prince Kíli,” Bilbo sighs, loading his steaming breakfast onto a plate of his mother’s cherished crockery and carrying the whole enormous pile to the table. “Then there’d never be another war of elves and dwarves ever again, and the entire world would live in perfect peace and plenty forever.”

“He is not _my_ anything,” Tauriel protests, and cannot help thinking that, though he’s being intentionally facetious, Bilbo is also being perhaps just a little unfair: it’s not as though the dwarves have always been entirely responsible for every ill meeting between their kind and hers. “And it’s not as though my people’s leaders are always perfectly even-handed and just…” she mutters, helping herself to a scone and some strawberry jam.

“Ha, right you are,” Bilbo snorts, grimacing and shaking his head as he digs into the mound of food before him. “The dwarves aren’t much better, of course. Do you know, that king of theirs called the lot of us ‘ _dirty little food-growers_ ’ last night!”

Tauriel gives a startled laugh, coughing around the mouthful of tea she’s just nearly inhaled. “Did he now?” she asks, wiping at her mouth with a napkin. “To be fair, growing food is a large and highly-valued part of life here in the Shire,” she says, “and springtime does tend to result in quite a few… _dirty_ hobbits.”

Bilbo scoffs. “It was most certainly _not_ meant as a compliment, I can assure you. And to think I had considered asking him to dance just before that!”

Tauriel raises her brows at him.

“Not a mistake I will make again,” he vows, wagging his fork at her, and she only smiles across at him and sips her tea.

“Well, perhaps we can at least be a good influence on the _next_ ruler of Erebor,” Tauriel says, and smirks again at the thought of just what kind of introduction to this foreign culture Prince Fíli has already received.

“Yes, indeed,” Bilbo says, mirroring her expression. “We shall have to introduce them to all that the Shire has to offer and make a valiant effort to broaden their palates. All the best cuisine, and all the best company. I think, by the end of this summer, the Princes of Erebor will be quite well acquainted with the pleasures to be found among _food-growers_.”

They finish breakfast and Bilbo goes off to dress, emerging once more a little while later with head and feet properly brushed, and a fine waistcoat and jacket in place of his dressing gown. He leaves Sting in the umbrella stand by the door, but Tauriel does catch sight of the hilt of a small dagger tucked into an inner pocket of his jacket, and knows he likely has a few such little throwing knives hidden about his person. They exchange a quick look just before stepping out the door, and she knows they both feel the same about the coming day: optimistic, even eager to meet these new, dwarvish acquaintances again, yet unable to shake the hard-won habits that have saved them time and again whenever stepping into the unknown.

Hobbiton is a center of cheery activity when they pass through on the way to the bridge, and they both field a volley of good mornings and holiday well-wishes, along with more than a few invitations to sit down to first breakfast at the various shops and pubs along the high street. Bilbo assures them they’ll be back ‘round in time for second breakfast, and Tauriel has to wave off the usual half-joking, half-concerned calls that she needs to eat more.

There are a few figures visible in the distance, clustered around the far end of the bridge as they approach, and they soon resolve themselves into the two young princes and the older, mute guard, the three of them lounging against the stone barriers that enclose either side of the bridge. Prince Kíli immediately perks up when they draw near, staring, it would seem, directly at Tauriel. The others follow suit more slowly, turning to face her and Bilbo, and it is only when they step onto the bridge to meet them that she notices a fourth pair of boots sticking out past one side of the bridge, the dwarf attached to them lying sprawled in the grass beyond.

“Good morning!” Bilbo greets them brightly, to a chorus of half-hearted and rather pained-sounding groans. Tauriel purses her lips around a smile while Bilbo grins openly at them. “And how are you all this fine spring day?”

“Everything hurts and I’m dying!” calls the dwarf in the grass, oddly cheerful – the other of their bodyguards, Bofur, if she’s not mistaken. The other one, Bifur, signs something with his hands that has the blond prince nodding his head miserably.

“I’m feeling better than a few minutes ago, at least,” Kíli says, smiling up at Tauriel despite how much the sunlight must currently be hurting his eyes. This only draws more groans from his companions.

“I’m, ah, glad to hear that,” Tauriel responds with an answering smile, and very carefully avoids meeting Bilbo’s sharp, shrewd gaze.

“A little food is just what you lot need,” Bilbo announces decisively. “I know a bakery in Hobbiton that makes the perfect hangover food the morning after festivals, for precisely this reason. If we get a move on now, we might even be able to catch the tail-end of first breakfast. Or else be first in line for second breakfast, not sure which is the more enviable spot.”

“What d’you need _two_ breakfasts for?” Kíli asks, pushing himself to his feet with a wince and a suppressed groan, and sparing a look towards Bilbo before turning his gaze back to Tauriel.

“Don’t care,” his brother says, grasping Kíli by one shoulder and spinning him in the direction of Hobbiton, with a little shove to get him moving, “I’m starving.”

Bofur chuckles and heaves a sigh before clambering to his feet too, and Tauriel catches Bifur’s eyeroll from the periphery of her vision as he follows after.

Bilbo takes the lead, and Prince Fíli falls in by his side easily, striking up a conversation on the topic of what constitutes ‘the perfect hangover food,’ and just like that Tauriel finds herself walking beside Kíli in the bright morning sunshine. She glances to the side to find him watching her, smiling lazily through his no doubt horrible headache, and jerks her gaze back front, heart pounding against her ribs.

“Did you enjoy the festival?” she asks once she has her pulse under control.

“Oh very much,” he says, and she hazards another glance at him, finding him smiling more broadly than before. “Though, on reflection, it’s possible I enjoyed a bit too much of Hobbiton’s extremely fine ale.”

Fíli and Bofur groan in unison at that, which sets Bilbo to laughing. “And that’s just the springtime brew!” he calls to them. “Harvest brew, now that’s something to be wary of,” he chuckles again, before turning back to his conversation with Fíli.

Beside her, Prince Kíli has gone a bit green. “Are there many such festivals here?” he asks. “With all the.. dancing, and drinking?” he goes on with a wince.

Tauriel nods. “About every six weeks, yes. The solstices and equinoxes, and four days that fall in between, as Ashseed does.”

“Oh good, I might even be recovered by Midsummer,” Bofur comments behind them, cheerful as ever, and Bifur snorts.

“I wish I had your optimism,” Fíli mutters over his shoulder.

Beside her, Kíli huffs a laugh and shakes his head, then turns his brown eyes back up to her. “And did you enjoy the festival, Lady Tauriel?” he asks.

She’s forgotten how to breathe, it’s the strangest feeling. “Just— Tauriel,” she says haltingly, trying to gather her scattered thoughts despite the blush she can feel spreading across her face. “I had a lovely time,” she finally says. “I always particularly enjoy the repledging. And you danced quite well for someone who can’t have known the steps before last night!”

“Ah, we dwarves,” he says, grinning up at her, “deceptively light on our feet.” Which is, naturally, when his boot catches on a small divot in the road, sending him careening face-first towards the ground, arms pinwheeling. She grabs for him just as he manages to catch himself, and Tauriel finds herself simply… holding his hand. They both stare at their joined hands for a moment before Kíli grins cheekily up at her again, and Tauriel can only blink down at him, feeling her blush reach new heights.

It lasts only a moment before she manages to gently extricate her hand from his, Kíli politely releasing his grip the moment she begins to pull away, but even that brief contact seems to burn into her skin, the feeling of his strong fingers wrapping so carefully around her own a phantom presence for several long seconds afterwards. She finds herself flexing her hand at her side as she starts forward again, unsure if she is trying to rid herself of the sensation or grasp hold of it and keep it.

“Deceptively light,” she echoes in a murmur, and then wonders if she’s ever said anything more inane. She glances at him again, heart in her throat, and for a moment he looks almost sad, before smiling up at her once again, the morning sunlight catching in his hair and turning it nearly auburn.

“Did you… change your hair?” she asks, frowning slightly but glad of the distraction. There’s definitely something different about the way the light catches on the dark strands on one side of his face, different from last night. She doesn’t know all the intricacies of dwarven grooming traditions – to call their race _secretive_ is something of an understatement, at times – but she knows enough to understand that one’s braids do not change on a whim. There is a language to them, some secret code woven about their faces for other dwarves to see and interpret.

Prince Kíli’s hand flies immediately to the braid draped past his left ear. “You noticed?” he asks, smiling bright as the sun up at her.

“Yes,” Tauriel answers honestly, at a loss for what else to say in the face of such a smile. And then, hoping she’s not being terribly offensive by commenting on it, she adds, “It looks very nice.”

Nowhere near offensive, going by the way Kíli absolutely _beams_ up at her.

They make their way into town once more, the streets of Hobbiton somehow now even busier than when they left them not long ago. Most of the local population has found their way outside by now, it would seem, farmers collecting their morning meals to carry out to the fields with them and merchants opening their shops for business in the happy, industrious bustle of a spring morning following a festival.

Bilbo leads them directly to the bakery he mentioned, already busy with the end of first breakfast and the beginning of second, but they quickly find a table large enough for the six of them at the restaurant at the front of the building. Bofur’s mouth actually falls open as he reads over the menu, Kíli’s eyes similarly wide, and Tauriel has to hide a smile behind her own menu, despite ordering no more than her usual tea. They’re brought heaping plates of eggs and sausages and bacon and bread that have the dwarves all gaping in wonder and has Tauriel chuckling behind her teacup. It took her a long while to grow accustomed to just how much hobbits can eat, and even longer to convince them that she really wasn’t in danger of withering away when she couldn’t keep up with all their meals.

The food does them all good, though, even if the dwarves don’t come anywhere near to finishing it all, and their hangovers seem to recede with a hot meal in their bellies. Bilbo is dutifully horrified at how little the other races tend to eat, and assures them they’ll not be allowed to go hungry here in the Shire.

They are on their way again soon enough, and Bilbo takes to pointing out his favorite shops in town as they go. Grocer, butcher, candlestick maker – though this last draws quiet, derisive scoffs from the dwarves. Beeswax candles are apparently quite rudimentary compared to whatever they use for lighting in their secretive mountain kingdoms. Tauriel rolls her eyes and inquires with a smile if they ever make use of bottled starlight for illumination, as her own people are wont to do, and can’t help either her blush or her wide grin at the way Kíli looks up at her with unadulterated awe.

Her blush deepens when she catches sight of the far too perceptive little smile Bilbo has directed at her.

“I’ve been looking forward to this new spring blend for months,” Bilbo tells them as he leads their group into his favorite pipeweed shop. “Nice and spicy, for the summer fire festivals, you know.”

“Mother will probably like this,” Fíli muses, and orders a whole barrel to be sent up to Netherfield, along with several crates of some milder, more mundane leaf. Mister Fizzygait’s eyes nearly pop out of his head at the sight of the gold coins Fíli produces from the purse on his belt, a far cry from the little copper and tin pieces they’re more accustomed to here. Tauriel does her best to look innocent when the shopkeeper turns an accusatory gaze on her and Bilbo, though she knows her friend is unbothered by it, happily accepting his role as Mad Baggins who brings outlandish folk and otherworldly objects into the quiet of the Shire.

“Most of the places in town will deliver to your door if you ask,” Bilbo tells the dwarves when they’re out in the street once more, everyone but Tauriel with a small sack of leaves to sample in their pipes later in the evening. She has by now grown accustomed to the oily texture in the air and the pungent smell left behind by the burning plant matter, as her hobbitish friends and neighbors, Bilbo not least among them, are so very fond of their pipes, but she has honestly never understood the appeal herself.

“Or if you’re putting in a large order, of course,” Bilbo goes on with his explanation as they make their way out of the market. “Why, I’ve no doubt Missus Addletoes’ brewery up the Water a ways would bring a whole cart full of ale and mead and wine right to your door,” he says, and only smirks more when their companions groan miserably at the mention of more alcohol. “Especially if you go about flashing _gold_ under their noses like that!” he adds, with a glance at Fíli from the corner of his eye.

“Didn’t mean to make a scene of it or anything,” Fíli shrugs. “We’ve silver and copper as well, and we changed some of ours for the humans’ coinage in Bree, if that’d be better. It was just something of a large order, figured it’d be better to overpay than under.”

“Not a bad sentiment,” Bilbo agrees, nodding as they walk, and Tauriel notes that he neither presses the issue nor mentions how very starry-eyed some of the locals have been over the gossip of wealthy foreign princes come seeking love. Actual accounts of charming, handsome young dwarves who are all too willing to spend their gold on Shire goods will do nothing to contradict such whispered tales, she thinks with a rueful smile – a smile that widens when she glances down at Kíli, walking at her side once more, catching his eye just as he looks up at her as well.

They continue on into the quieter parts of town, where the dwarves quickly spot the post office from which they’d had to retrieve their weapons late last night. Bilbo laughs openly at the dark looks the four of them cast the unassuming little governmental building, as if their weaponry might be magically spirited from off their persons and deposited within its confines once more. “I’m still not sure I understand why you would leave our weapons with the letter couriers,” Bofur comments from where he and Bifur walk at the rear of the group, one hand resting casually on the head of the throwing axe on his belt when Tauriel glances back at him. The other dwarves mutter their agreement, though Bofur at least seems more curious than bothered.

“We take our post very seriously around here,” Bilbo responds primly, to looks of only greater consternation from the dwarves.

“That and mealtimes,” Tauriel adds dryly, and smiles when Kíli laughs at Bilbo’s proud nod. Food, festivals, and mail delivery, some of the only things handled with military efficiency and precision here in the Shire.

“Well, that’s most of Hobbiton proper,” Bilbo says as the shops and other buildings begin to fall away behind them. “You know the Party Field, of course,” he goes on, waving a hand out towards the great old oak tree where it rises above the rest of town like a gentle, silent sentinel. In the fields just beyond the hedgerow, last night’s bonfires have been transformed into large piles of blackened ash, and more than a dozen hobbits are already working to prepare it for transport and use, spreading the embers across the ground so they cool, then shoveling the cold ash into barrels and loading them onto wagons headed, Tauriel knows, out to every farm in the central West Farthing.

“It’s mostly just houses and smials out here now,” Bilbo goes on as their road swings towards the east and away from the Party Tree, “and then woods and fields beyond those. The, ah, green door, just there,” he says, nodding towards the Hill north of town and waiting for the dwarves to follow his gaze. “That’s Bag End, traditional seat of the Baggins family, and my home.”

Kíli gives it a considering look as they walk and then turns to Tauriel, his brown eyes large, liquid, and what might just be called _concerned_. “Do you live there as well, Tauriel?” he asks.

The way he says her name is going to become a problem, she realizes, feeling herself blush once more as a shiver races up from her hand, a ghost phenomenon of where he’d touched her before. His voice somehow combines the correct, elvish pronunciation – as Mayor Goodbody had been so careful to enunciate the night before – with the slight rolled _R_ s and guttural vowels in his accent, a remnant of the dwarves’ native language bleeding through into Westron, together forming something utterly unique to her ears.

“Ah, no,” Bilbo answers for her, and she realizes with a start that she has been simply staring down at Kíli for the last few seconds, silent and lost in his gaze, “Tauriel has a smial of her own, one that’s much more suited to someone of her height.”

“Oh,” Kíli breathes, sounding relieved for some reason, and glances only briefly at Bilbo ahead of them before turning his big brown eyes up to Tauriel once more. “That’s… that’s good…”

“My house lies to the east of here, near the forest,” she tells him, even as something in her wonders _why_ she would volunteer that, why her instinct isn’t to keep such information secret, to guard herself more carefully against these dwarves whom she barely knows, against _this_ dwarf in particular. Pushing such thoughts away for later reflection, she adds, “It is called Ithil Galad.”

“Ithil Galad,” Kíli echoes faithfully, his pronunciation peculiar and novel even as he looks up at her as if Tauriel has given him a truly precious gift. “Elvish, isn’t it?” he asks, and then, at her nod, “What does it mean? If you don’t mind my asking, of course...”

“Ah,” she hesitates, flushing again despite the smile she can’t keep off her face, and has to look away from his terribly sincere, imploring gaze. “It, ah, means ‘fire moon.’”

The prince’s face, if possible, lights up even more. “I saw a fire moon once!” he tells her as they walk. “It rose up over the pass when we were crossing the Misty Mountains. Huge, red and gold it was. It filled the sky, lighting our path.” After a short pause, he adds, softer, “I wish I could show you.”

There’s a strange but pleasant tingling in her chest, and control of her pulse has slipped away from her again, leaving her feeling not unlike she had after three tankards of ale last night. His smile is infectious, as is becoming a theme today, and she is quite sincere, if a bit breathless, when she answers, “I should like to see that.”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo says from the front of their group, and he shoots her a sly look when Tauriel manages to tear her gaze away from Kíli’s at last, “we’ve plenty of beautiful sunrises and moonsets to be seen here during the summer, though I dare say the most magnificent ones occur in autumn. It’s a shame you lot won’t be staying that long.”

“Yes,” Fíli replies, glancing back over his shoulder at his brother, “quite a shame.” Tauriel follows his gaze, meeting Kíli’s eyes just as the dwarf looks up at her again, that odd touch of sadness in his expression once more, though after a moment his lips twitch up into something a little more hopeful.

They travel east along the northern edge of the Water, smials and small houses giving way to more rambling estates, overgrown gardens, and finally proper farms and fields as they leave Hobbiton. By the time they reach the Green Dragon, situated midway between Hobbiton and Bywater, the tavern has already begun to serve elevensies and Bilbo hastens ahead to secure them a table with enough legroom for Tauriel.

“I don’t know about you,” he says to them over his shoulder as they follow him, “but I’ve worked up quite an appetite on the walk over here.”

She returns his smile and shakes her head, sliding into the corner seat beside Bilbo, as they usually do; Kíli is quick to claim the seat to her right as the other dwarves fall in around the table. The Green Dragon itself is something of a cultural icon, especially the morning after Ashseed, and she can think of no better place to further introduce the dwarves to hobbitish culture. Several tables near the water have already been claimed by groups of young adults, still soot-covered and hair-tussled from a long night at the bonfires, probably only recently in from the fields from the look of them, and drinking morning-mead: honeywine and citrus juice to chase away their well-earned aches.

Tauriel watches the dwarves take in the interior of the pub, the carvings on the pillars and the paintings on the walls, the breadth of West Farthing society that is drawn to the Green Dragon for food and socializing on a holiday, the general atmosphere of excitement and cheer of hobbits in the spring. All the dwarves except Kíli, that is, who gives the room and its inhabitants a cursory glance before turning his warm gaze back up to her.

“I notice quite a few people are still sporting ash from last night,” he says, and she is beginning to be able to discern the smile in his tone alone.

“Ah, yes,” Bilbo says on her other side, smiling as he settles himself and folds his napkin in his lap. “Bit of a sign of pride, on Ashseed Morn, the tangible evidence of affection and other sorts of love in spring. I dare say I still have a smudge or two here or there,” he adds, pushing up one jacket sleeve for a moment.

“But not you, Tauriel?” Kíli asks, and without looking at him she can feel his gaze on her, the combination of that with his pronunciation of her name distracting her for a moment. Enough that it takes her a few long seconds to realize that he is referencing the large expanses of skin she’d decided to bare to the spring sunshine today, soot-free unlike many of the hobbits around them, and feels the tips of her ears turn red.

“Old elvish habit,” she says when she has her breath, just as Bilbo nudges her under the table. “Ithil Galad has fresh running water, and with the frequency with which Bilbo and I find ourselves in the wilds, it’s hard to resist the desire to wash when given the opportunity, even after a night like last night,” she says, smiling at him and trying to bring her blush under control.

The barmaid comes by then, with bread and water and a teapot for the table, of which Tauriel wants nothing more than a piece of pumpernickel with honeybutter and a cup of tea with cream. But Bilbo orders his usual spread, and the dwarves each request small sandwiches, then begin curiously investigating the bread baskets.

Kíli catches her eye as the waitress leaves, flicking his gaze over her right shoulder and back quickly, smiling coyly at her. “I think you, ah, missed a spot,” he says too quietly for the others to hear. “Just, just there,” he goes on, gesturing to the skin below her right ear.

“Oh,” Tauriel says, hand flying to her neck and blush rising. “Thank you,” she adds once she has the presence of mind to do so, reaching for her napkin to wipe away the small smudge of ash, her skin tingling as though Kíli had touched her there as well.

“So,” Fíli says, leaning in over the table to address Bilbo, “you lot really don’t have any sort of armory?”

“How do you mean?” Bilbo asks, frowning quizzically. “My house and Tauriel’s are about the closest things to a weapons cache you’ll find within the Shire, but they’re hardly armories. Well,” he pauses, grinning, “Bag End is hardly an armory.”

“What I mean is,” the blond prince glances at Tauriel before looking at Bilbo again, “well, you left our weapons in the _post office_.”

“Yes?” Bilbo asks, smiling blankly, as if he hasn’t any idea what could possibly bother them about that, as if he and Tauriel haven’t had this exact conversation in years past, as if he hasn’t visited the great cities of Gondor and Rohan or trained with the best of the Dúnedain. “Where else would we have put them?”

“But where do your city guards work from?”

“Oh but Hobbiton isn’t a city!” Bilbo laughs. “We haven’t any guards or police or what-have-you. We have Tauriel, of course,” he says, touching a hand briefly to her arm, and though he doesn’t leave a mark behind this time, she can feel some of the finer grit of the holiday ash still on his fingertips, and finds herself smiling slightly at the sentiment of the gesture. “And I can certainly lend a hand in a fight when needed,” he goes on, defaulting to modesty as usual, preferring to let others, be they potential foe or simple hobbit folk, underestimate him. He smiles across at the dwarves, his ‘don’t mind me, I’m just a harmless little hobbit, I couldn’t possibly be a threat’ smile. “We’ve honestly very little use for warriors here in the Shire, and so even less call for any sort of armory.”

“But, if you don’t have an armory,” Bofur asks, frowning as well, “where do you go when you’re in need of repairs?”

“You must care for your weapons all yourself,” Kíli breathes before either she or Bilbo can answer, gazing up at her, and then his brows rise, expression brightening further as something else seems to occur to him. “Wait, does that mean you’re a smith as well?!”

“Er, no…” Tauriel says, blinking down at him in confusion. “It hardly requires a weaponsmith to keep elven blades sharp.”

“And while we do have many very fine blacksmiths here in the Shire,” Bilbo adds, “they’re more accustomed to horseshoes and cooking pots than weaponry.”

The dwarves all exchange disquieted looks, until Bofur chuckles and says, “Guess we’ll just have to build our own smithy, then!”

The waitress arrives with their food then, and Bilbo shoots Missus Cotton a relieved look as she sets his heaping platter on the table before him. The dwarves take up their more humble sandwiches, but still watch in awe at yet another display of hobbitish appetite. Bifur signs something to the others, and they all nod, looking stunned and a little horrified as Bilbo continues to dig in. “Good question,” Bofur mutters, eyeing their hobbit guide. “Where _does_ he put it all?”

Tauriel has to hide her laugh in a quick cough, taking up her tea again as Bilbo carefully dabs at his mouth with his napkin before addressing the dwarves. “We hobbits burn through our food rather quickly I’m afraid,” he says, and then smirks, adding, “Why do you think we have to make our alcohol so strong?”

As if on cue, another of the servers plunks down a fresh jug of morning-mead in the middle of their table. “Oh, er, we didn’t order this,” Bofur starts, looking a little green at the sight of more alcohol as he glances up at the waiter.

“It’s for Mister Prince Fíli, from your friends over there,” the hobbit answers, and nods at another table across the crowded pub, where several sooty hobbits, each barely past their majority if Tauriel’s any judge, immediately smile and wave at them as soon as they, or rather, Fíli looks over at them.

“Do you know them?” Kíli asks, leaning into his brother’s space to peer over at the group of giggling young hobbits.

“They certainly seem to know you,” Bilbo drawls, regarding Fíli with a raised brow and a small grin.

“I believe I’ve had the pleasure of their acquaintance, yes,” Fíli answers, finishing off his drink and pouring himself a mug of the gifted morning-mead before pushing to his feet. “I suppose I ought to go say hello. Wouldn’t want to be rude, now would I?” he says with a wink down at their table in general before he swaggers away, tankard in hand.

Bifur sighs expansively, and though he doesn’t get up to follow Fíli, his gaze does remain steadily trained on his charge.

“Well, he’s certainly popular,” Bilbo says as they all watch Fíli slide seamlessly into his group of admirers.

“Yeah,” Kíli replies without judgement, before turning back to their own table with a small shrug. “Always has been. It’s the Crown Prince confidence or something.”

“Is this… normal, then?” Tauriel asks, tilting her head to look down at him. “I was under the impression that your culture stressed, ah… monogamy?”

Kíli freezes with his tankard halfway to his mouth, staring up at her with wide eyes, as though shocked at her question. Perhaps the term means something else to dwarves, or perhaps even such vague questions about their culture are considered taboo. She opens her mouth to retract the question, her blush already rising, but Bofur speaks before she can.

“Oh, aye, we do,” he says, while Kíli only continues to stare up at her wide-eyed and unspeaking. “But everyone’s young once,” he grins, reaching carefully around the mead for the teapot. “No harm in an unattached lad like Fíli having a little fun before he settles down, now is there?”

“So there is some truth to the rumors,” Bilbo says, smiling cheekily, “‘Dwarven Princes come to stay the summer, looking for love.’”

Kíli, having finally gotten his tankard to his mouth, seems to inhale the mead at Bilbo’s comment, coughing and choking for a moment. When he finally catches his breath, though, the first thing he sputters out is, “There's alcohol is this!”

“Uh, yes, a little, I suppose?” Bilbo answers, brows drawn together in bemusement.

“Why?!”

Bilbo shrugs. “It’s nearly midday.”

Tauriel has to look away from Kíli’s horrified face, hiding her smile behind her teacup once more. “So is it true, though?” she prompts quietly, and Kíli’s eyes jerk back to her. “Is that the purpose of your coming west, to find a suitable wife for the Crown Prince?” The Shire is a comfortable stop along the way to Ered Luin, after all, and the dwarven settlements out there could likely offer some eligible princess or noblewoman to add to Erebor’s royal family. Perhaps this ostentatious flirtation is something of a last hurrah for Prince Fíli, before he must enter into an arranged, political match...

“We can marry for love,” Kíli says, a bit sharply, as though following the line of her thoughts. “The royal family, I mean,” he adds in a softer tone. “It’s not… We’re not so interested in any abstract ideas of ‘suitability’ that we would forgo the happiness of true companionship.” He can’t seem to hold her gaze any longer, and looks down at his plate and what’s left of his meal. “Fíli just hasn’t fallen in love, that’s all.”

“Well, but, he will be expected to produce an heir, won’t he?” Bilbo asks with a frown. “So doesn’t that, er,” he glances over at Fíli and Tauriel follows his gaze to where the prince sits, a hobbit lass on one side and a lad on the other, both leaning heavily into him and looking absolutely _adoring_ , “limit his choices a bit?”

“No?” Kíli answers, and he and the other two dwarves all frown at Bilbo in confusion. “I mean, yes, he’ll need an heir eventually, but it’s not like…” There’s a blush rising across Kíli’s cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose, and Tauriel has the strange thought that he almost seems to be avoiding her gaze. “It’s not about _siring_ children. Fíli will name an heir when he becomes king, and until he does, I’m technically next in line for the throne. If he marries a woman, and they have children, their eldest would be his heir then – but there’s no guarantee that he necessarily ever will marry! Why, Uncle Thorin has never married, and Fíli is his heir.”

“Really,” Bilbo says, with just enough edge to his voice to draw Tauriel’s gaze over to him. He looks momentarily like he’s fighting a grimace, likely at the mention of the dwarf who had insulted him the night before.

“Yes,” Kíli nods. “So Fíli could easily do the same and simply choose his heir from among my—” He cuts off abruptly, pale skin flaming pink as his eyes widen.

“From among your children?” Bilbo finishes for him, one brow raised.

Kíli doesn’t answer, can only seem to stare down at his hands on the table, and so Bofur steps in once more. “Aye, that’d be the expected thing,” he says, nodding. “A sibling can inherit, but once there’s a next generation, it’s traditional to pass the crown down rather than sideways. Lady Dís was set to inherit before this one and his brother came along, you know,” he adds with a grin, wrapping his arm around Kíli’s shoulders in a rough, one-sided hug.

“You speak as though having children is a sure thing for you,” Tauriel murmurs after Bofur releases him, fiddling with her teacup rather than meeting Kíli’s gaze when he looks up at her again. “Are you not so unattached as your brother, then?”

When she does finally glance at him, he’s looking at her with an indecipherable expression in his dark eyes. “Merely a hope for the future,” he says softly, smiling slightly. “But no, I am not engaged either.”

“Well,” Bilbo says loudly, casting Tauriel a sideways glance before gesturing at their now-empty plates, “it seems we’re all about finished here, shall we continue on to Bywater?” he asks, and then cranes his neck to look around towards Fíli’s table. “...Should we, ah, go get Prince Fíli?”

They all look over, and after several moments Fíli finally glances back at them. Bifur starts to gesture with his hands again, staring intently at the prince, and Fíli quickly signs something in return before turning back to his group of adoring hobbits, smiling and laughing at something one of them has said.

“He says we should go on without him,” Kíli translates, already starting to stand.

“Did he really?” Bilbo asks, blinking up at Kíli as he follows suit, his appetite for new knowledge and foreign languages clearly having been piqued by their display.

“And Bifur’s going to stay and keep an eye on him,” Bofur adds, clapping his cousin on the shoulder as he steps away from the table. Bifur grumbles low in his throat and mutters something that Tauriel supposes must be Khuzdul, but doesn’t move from his spot, instead helping himself to more mead and scowling across the room at the elder prince and his suitors.

They pile out into the street once more, squinting up into the midday sunshine after the smoky dimness of the pub.

“That is _very_ useful,” Bilbo comments as they make their way through the small collection of booths outside the Green Dragon and the holiday crowd gathered there, “being able to communicate without speaking like that.”

“Handy, even, you might say,” Tauriel adds, voice perfectly neutral. Bilbo shoots her the usual withering glare, but a glance at Kíli walking by her side reveals him looking up at her like he has never heard anything more delightful.

“Do you hobbits not have any sort of hand-sign language, then, Master Bilbo?” Bofur asks, frowning slightly as he falls in beside the hobbit at the front of their diminished group, as Bilbo leads them towards the bridge.

“Er, we _do…_ But it’s mostly only learned by those with some amount of hearing loss, and their close family and friends.” He shrugs, giving Bofur a helpless, slightly embarrassed smile.

“But…” Bofur seems to flounder for a moment. “But how do they speak to anyone _else?_ How do they carry on business in the market? How do they meet new people?”

“Well, one doesn’t often meet very many new people in the Shire,” Bilbo starts to say.

“Except when strange dwarves come visiting?” Kíli offers, and gives Bilbo a small smile when he looks back at him, before glancing up at Tauriel again. “Or when elves come to stay?”

Bilbo flushes, and Tauriel can sense his discomfort almost as if it’s her own, mind searching for a way to divert the conversation to some topic more agreeable to everyone. “I’ll not argue that your way is much more practical,” Bilbo says then, before she can speak. “And certainly more… _inclusive_.” He glances briefly at Tauriel, and murmurs, “Good earth knows the people of the Shire can learn to be more welcoming of differences in others.”

They continue across the bridge that spans the Water, busy with midday holiday traffic, and Bilbo exchanges ash-dusted hellos with several of their neighbors as they pass. The crossroads is similarly busy, wagons full of barrels of ash and wheelbarrows heaped high with it competing for space in the crowd, but once they are through and on their way to Bywater, on a lane that curves gently southward before swinging northeast towards the river again, the traffic thins out to only a few hobbits here and there, leaving them to enjoy the spring breeze and warm sunshine unaccosted.

“Oh, Missusses Boysen and Greensole finally had their baby!” Bilbo says with a sudden smile, gesturing to direct her attention to pots of daisies and rue and wisteria sitting just outside a small smial.

“And Rowan Bophin and Rosemary Furrow are honeymooning now,” Tauriel adds, nodding to a house across the way with a row of fresh-planted daffodils beneath a window and potted plants by the door. “I saw them pledge to each other last night, and there’s no mistaking a sign like that,” she adds with a laugh.

“Congratulations all around,” Bilbo says approvingly, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat. “We owe them each a meat pie soon, wouldn’t you say?” he adds, casting a smiling glance back her way.

Kíli, having also followed her nod, looks up at her with confusion evident on his face, dark brows drawn together. “What sign?” he asks, glancing back to the house as they walk past.

“Aye, I see only a garden,” Bofur adds from ahead of them.

“Hobbits use their gardens to communicate,” Tauriel explains, smiling at Kíli. “The flowers are easy enough to read once you learn the language. Wisteria and daisy and rue for a new baby, peony and pink dianthus for honeymooners,” she goes on, pointing out the potted flowers in turn, almost certainly recent gifts from family, likely grown in their own gardens in anticipation of this day. “And there under the window, daffodils, for a happy marriage. They probably planted them first thing this morning, with ash from last night’s bonfire.”

“Dwarves aren’t the only ones with a secret language,” Bilbo says, smirking over his shoulder at her and Kíli.

“Kinda puts a practical spin on the whole ‘fertility festival’ thing, don’t it?” Bofur asks, turning and walking backwards briefly to address Kíli, a wide grin on his face.

Bilbo laughs beside him, drawing Bofur’s attention back front as they continue down the lane that leads into Bywater. “It’s all rather practical,” he says affably. “The bonfire ash acts as a fertilizer and pest-repellant; we wouldn’t have nearly as bountiful harvests as we do without our Ashseed traditions. And perhaps no one actually _believes_ anymore that the, erm, _activities_ beside the bonfires enrich the ash and please the Green Lady, but, well, what’s the harm?”

“Aye, a lad last night engaged me in quite the discussion of herbal methods for preventing pregnancy, should it not be wanted just yet. Impressive invention, that. Have you no fear of illness or disease, though?”

“We’ve yet to encounter anything we can’t cure with the proper combination of herbs,” Bilbo replies, shrugging, and as he continues on, Tauriel’s mind drifts away from their conversation, as it often does when hobbits speak of sexual matters.

She’s found a home here, and a happy one, far happier than many decades of her life in the Greenwood. Bilbo is her dearest friend, and well matched to her need for adventure and longing to roam, as had his mother, Belladonna, been while she yet lived. In many ways, she has taken on the customs of her adopted people, but in this she will always stand apart. She would not have them any other way, but sex forms such a large part of life and culture in the Shire, and she can’t help but feel removed from them at such times.

It is not the same for elves, and she wouldn’t want to be any other way, either. While hobbits follow love where the breeze blows them, in and out of relationships of two or more people nearly as often as the seasons change, elves only ever fall in love once, and many never at all. It’s a connection that is slow to sprout and slow to bloom, but lasts through the long immortality of her kind: years are as useless to describe the time since Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel married as are days to describe the more than six hundred years of her life. And without that slow-grown connection, sex simply isn’t interesting to elves. Her hobbit neighbors have accepted it as one of her oddities, like wearing boots or eating so little, taking her as she is and trying not to judge, in their good-natured if gossipy way.

As Bilbo and Bofur continue to talk just ahead of them, Tauriel slowly becomes aware that beside her, Kíli has gone a startling shade of red, and hasn’t spoken for many long minutes. She casts about for some topic of discussion, something to pull his attention away from Bilbo and Bofur, and says the first thing that comes to her mind:

“I am sorry if I offended with the question about monogamy earlier,” she says softly, so as not to draw attention to their conversation. Kíli, if anything, blushes further, shoulders tense and face tilted away from her, and she hurries on. “I know that dwarven culture is kept secret, sacred, and I do not mean to disrespect that. Cultural exchange is well and good, but I understand there are boundaries. Please let me know if I overstep the limits of propriety, Prince Kíli.”

“Just Kíli,” he replies, mirroring her earlier words. He glances shyly up at her through his lashes, smiling, a blush still painting his cheekbones, making his dark eyes stand out warm all the more. “You gave no offense. It was only... I haven’t nearly the experience of my older brother, and even he isn’t thinking seriously about marriage yet, he’s only eighty-one. Monogamy just isn’t the sort of thing you expect to come up over lunch.”

“Elevensies,” she corrects with a smile. “Luncheon is still to come.”

“ _How?_ ” he asks on a groan, shaking his head. “How do you survive, living with them?”

It surprises a laugh out of her. “I nibble throughout the day,” she says as though confiding a secret, as around them shops begin to appear alongside the last few houses and smials. “Believe me, my eating habits are a source of constant consternation for them as well,” she adds with a grin.

The scattered shops gradually coalesce into the marketplace in central Bywater, just a few streets over from the waterfront, a large open square with businesses lining every side, and booths and carts and stands set up in the space between. Bilbo leads them confidently through the bustle, pointing out shops as they go, expertly scooting past the haberdashery before any _relation_ could possibly catch sight of him, Tauriel notes with a wry smile. This swing through Bywater has put them in closer proximity to Bilbo’s Sackville relations than they usually like, but in the name of cultural exchange, it is hopefully worth the risk.

As a town in its own right, Bywater has many of the same amenities of Hobbiton, but being on the Great Road does allow for a few additional offerings. Though, if she knows her friend at all, it’s entirely possible there’s only _one_ particular offering he’s interested in…

“There’s a place on the Water that serves simply the best fish and chips,” Bilbo says to the dwarves, as if on cue. “We shouldn’t linger here too long, the tables for luncheon go quick, but we can stand to browse around a bit longer.”

The blacksmith ensconced in one corner of the open square draws the dwarves’ particular interest, and Tauriel and Bilbo follow them over to make the introductions. Bilbo excuses himself from the heat of the smithy at his first chance, and Tauriel keeps half an eye on him as he chats with the spice merchant in the next stall over, more out of habit than any real need. She leans in the doorway as Kíli and Bofur engage poor Mister Jumblebranch in more discussion of his tools and techniques than he’s likely had in the last five years combined, she thinks with a fond smile. The little hobbit smith looks a bit overwhelmed at first by the two dwarves, each easily a full hand taller than him, but he soon rises to the challenge, gushing enthusiastically about his trade in a waterfall of jargon that makes little sense to Tauriel but with which Kíli and Bofur both seem familiar.

“Oh, Cousin Bilbo,” Tauriel hears a familiar female voice say nearby, and she spins around, searching the crowd in dismay before following the source of the voice as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’ daughter continues, “Happy Ashseed. I didn’t expect to see you here. What brings you to Bywater today?”

“Happy Ashseed, Cousin Ophelia,” Bilbo greets her in return, his voice heavy with false cordiality and his smile a brief flicker. “Tauriel and I are playing host to our visiting dignitaries,” he adds with a bit more warmth, indicating Kíli and Bofur, who seem to have caught sight of their conversation and begin concluding their discussion with Mister Jumblebranch. The crowd seems blessedly free of any of Lobelia’s dreadful hats, so Tauriel turns her attention to Bilbo and the younger Sackville-Baggins as the dwarves join them outside again.

“Why, Miss Ophelia!” Bofur says, drawing the name out to its full four syllables, doffing his hat and dropping into a courtly bow with a grin up at her. “What a pleasure to see you again! Did you enjoy the rest of the festival last night?”

“I did, thank you, Mister Bofur,” Ophelia replies, as the dwarf’s antics bring, Tauriel notes with a twitch of one eyebrow, a genuine smile and a flash of rarely-seen dimple to the young hobbit’s face.

“You two know each other?” Bilbo asks flatly.

“I had the pleasure of meeting your dear cousin on the dance floor last night,” Bofur tells Bilbo, before turning back to Ophelia. “Master Bilbo here has been kind enough to show us the way about Hobbiton and Bywater and this whole area.”

“Yes, Cousin Bilbo is always so very generous and... accommodating,” Ophelia says, turning her eyes downward after one quick glance at Bilbo.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Bofur says, and then his face lights up as if he’s just had the most brilliant idea. “You should join us for lunch!” he exclaims. Tauriel sees both Bilbo and Ophelia stiffen, the two of them very studiously avoiding making eye contact.

“That’s, ah… a very tempting offer,” Ophelia says after a moment, “but I’m afraid I must finish up my business in town. Perhaps another time, though?” she adds, smiling shyly up at the hatted dwarf and not glancing even once in Bilbo’s direction.

“I might just have to take you up on that,” Bofur grins in reply.

“Well, we would hate to keep you any longer from your business, cousin,” Bilbo cuts in with a forced smile and a hand on Bofur’s shoulder. Ophelia’s eyes switch between the two of them for a moment before she nods, returning to her usual stoic ways – though a cheerful wave from Bofur just as she turns away brings out her small smile once more.

“That was close,” Bilbo mutters once she’s a little ways away, and turns to lead their group in the opposite direction, towards his favorite fish restaurant on the Water, where a small crowd of hobbits is just beginning to form for luncheon.

“Close?” Kíli asks as he falls into step beside Tauriel once more. A pace ahead of them, Bofur frowns over at their hobbit guide, looking, if anything, somehow hurt on Ophelia’s behalf.

Bilbo sighs, shaking his head. “Ophelia is, herself, a perfectly nice girl. Bit shy, you know, but nothing really _objectionable_ about her. It’s her mother I’m most keen to avoid, and especially the chance of her mother seeing the two of us together.”

“Oh?” Bofur says, smiling a little again and waggling his eyebrows. “Does she think there’s something improper going on between you two or something?”

“Unfortunately not,” Bilbo grumbles, expertly clearing a way through the hobbits hanging about the front of the fish shop to take their food away with them, gaze sharp as he looks around for an open table.

Kíli glances up at Tauriel, a question clear in his gaze, but she just shakes her head. As much as Bilbo involves her in all areas of his life, this issue is personal to him, and not one she is eager to comment upon – especially as the mere mention tends to make her friend extremely uncomfortable. She can only hope he won’t be too agitated for the rest of the afternoon, after an actual run-in with his Sackville-Baggins cousin.

Bilbo finds them quite a nice table, out in the dappled sunshine under the trees nearest the Water’s edge. It helps that so many of the other hobbits are giving them something of a wide berth, even as they stare and point and immediately begin gossiping amongst themselves. She wonders idly if word of the elder prince’s gold coinage – or his eager embrace of hobbitish Ashseed traditions – has reached Bywater already, traveling ahead of them almost as if carried on the wind. They haven’t exactly kept a low profile, but Bofur and Kíli both seem unperturbed by the attention, and settle themselves comfortably around the little table with she and Bilbo, looking out at the locals gathering around the Water for luncheon, some at restaurants and pubs like theirs, others picnicking on the grassy banks of the pool. Little children splash about in the shallows, their voices raised in happy peals, while older hobbits lounge under trees with their fishing lines cast into the deeper waters, and farmers and shopkeepers alike break from their work in the fields to lie back in the sweet, soft grass that seems to grow just about everywhere in the Shire.

Bilbo gets his desired fish and chips – a simple name that belies the mountainous platter set before him – while Tauriel concedes to a small plate of fruit, cheese, and some greens, along with her usual tea, about all she feels up to as the warm spring day nears its peak. The dwarves, still seeming in awe at the sight of a healthy hobbit appetite, split a child’s portion of chips between them.

Fish, as it turns out, constitutes a fair portion of their diet in Erebor, Bofur tells them, owing to their trade with Esgaroth, though the dwarves of Erebor do eat a variety of meats, including pork, unlike their cousins to the east. Kíli tells them about going to visit the Iron Hills, where their cousin Dáin Ironfoot rules, and his son, also named Thorin – and Tauriel has to hide a smile once more at the sour look on Bilbo’s face at that – who is only a few years younger than Kíli. He and Kíli and Fíli had apparently wreaked havoc in the Hills, including one time when they had stolen several warhogs and had, predictably, lost control of them almost immediately and ridden straight through the capital’s largest marketplace at high noon. Another time, back in Erebor, with another cousin, Gimli, and their young friend Ori, they had all tried to sneak out of the mountain by hiding themselves in empty barrels – not that they’d gotten very far, with city guards and customs agents inspecting all outgoing inventory.

Luncheon passes quickly, each story flowing easily into the next as Bofur and Bilbo both chime in with tales of their own kin and their wild, younger years. Tauriel finds herself drawn into the sharing as well, speaking more about her past than she has to anyone besides the Bagginses of Bag End, telling stories of the times she climbed the tallest trees, just to see what lay beyond her homeland. Her gaze continually meets Kíli’s as she listens and laughs along, his dark eyes crinkled with shared mirth as he regales them with yet another mishap of his childhood inside the Lonely Mountain.

If Kíli were an elf, speaking this way... But he is not an elf, she reminds herself quickly as they finish the meal and rise from their table. He does not mean anything by sharing such small, personal stories with her, nothing more than simple amiability, surely. Dwarves are not like her own people, for all that she has found his company to be utterly pleasant, both today and last night at the Ashseed festival. This is really no different than the way the hobbits often treat her: chattering on about anything and everything, about their own day or about something that happened to someone else, according to so-and-so who heard it from so-and-so whose brother saw it with his own eyes, make no mistake! After food and the growing things of the earth, what hobbits love best is gossip, and they will eagerly share it with anyone who lends a willing, or even not-so-willing, ear. Tauriel has learned over the years that while it was a sign of friendliness, a sign that they had finally stopped seeing her as an outsider when they began to include her in their gossip chains, sharing stories that way still does not carry the implications that it would among her own kind. It is not a sign of any particular intimacy, or of a desire for such. And it’s just the same with Kíli.

Now if only her heart would stop its ridiculous fluttering every time he looks up at her.

Bilbo and Bofur take the lead once more as they set out on the long road to Waymeet. Bywater quickly falls behind them as the last of the smials peter out into open farmland, and Tauriel can make out hobbits in every direction busy spreading the ash from last night’s bonfires onto their fields. Bofur strikes up a conversation as they walk, asking Bilbo about the farms they can see and what each is growing, when they’ll be harvested, and other such things. He seems happy to admit his ignorance on matters of farming and gardening and draws Bilbo into lengthy explanations of soil and fertilizer and sun exposure as only a hobbit can give, even though her friend is perhaps the furthest thing from a farmer. She smiles to herself, letting their words wash over her like the gentle summer breeze and the warmth of the afternoon sunlight, enjoying the quiet rhythm of the road and feeling surprisingly comfortable in the silence that has fallen between her and Kíli.

“So what, precisely, does it take to keep elven blades sharp?” Kíli asks her after several quiet minutes walking along the Great Road. “If not an armory or a weaponsmith, I mean?”

“Very little,” Tauriel smiles down at him. “Cleaning and oiling, of course, but otherwise they’ll hold their edge for years without much needed maintenance from me.” She glances forward, to where Bilbo and Bofur walk ahead of them, still chatting between them, and then goes on, “I’ve acquired a few pieces that date back to Gondolin, in the First Age. I have never had to do more than clean the dust from them.”

“And they’re still sharp, after all that time?” Kíli asks, clearly impressed.

“Oh yes,” Tauriel says, glancing at him with another smile. “My bow is the one thing that needs regular care, as the string does occasionally wear thin.”

Kíli looks up at her with a sharp, in-drawn breath, brown eyes wide. “You’re an archer too?!”

“‘Too’?” she echoes, brows drawn together as she looks down at him.

“I had hoped you’d be an archer like me, I mean I thought you might be since you’re an elf, but I didn’t want to presume, and—” Kíli babbles for a moment before abruptly snapping his mouth shut again and then taking a deep breath, his cheeks stained pink once more. His outburst has drawn curious glances from Bilbo and Bofur ahead, Tauriel notes. “What I mean is,” Kíli says much more calmly, pulling Tauriel’s gaze back to him, “so few dwarves are archers, is all. I hardly ever meet anyone else I can actually talk to about it. But when we met last night, I had the thought that you might be an archer, as I am.”

“Oh,” Tauriel says, still a little stunned by his rapid-fire words a moment ago. “I… hadn’t realized you were referring to yourself, before.” And then, after a pause, “I did not think dwarves took much interest in archery.”

“They don’t, usually,” Kíli says, making a face. “It’s seen as a good secondary skill to have – you know, for hunting and the like – and so most people train in it to proficiency, but it’s rarely taken up as one’s main weapon.”

“But it is yours?” Tauriel asks, feeling herself smile again. “I must admit I favor it above all other weapons as well.”

Kíli’s smile is like the sun now. “I thought you might.”

“Because I’m an elf?” she teases.

He flushes again, and Tauriel just catches herself thinking how very charming his bashful expression is when he speaks again. “Not _just_ because of that. I suppose I sensed something about you, last night,” he says, and glances up at her through his lashes, “as if we were… kindred spirits, so to speak.”

“You’ve quite a good sense about these things, then,” she responds, and then goes on without really thinking through her words, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dwarven bow up close. I should love the chance to examine one and see it in action.”

Kíli, it seems, can only gape at her for several seconds, just long enough to make her wonder if she has perhaps gone too far once more and given offense by inquiring so much about the secrets of dwarven culture. But then Kíli breathes, “I would be more than happy to give you a demonstration. Whenever you like.”

“Tomorrow?” she immediately suggests, and then winces when his eyes widen once more. “That is… I would be honored if you would share this part of your culture with me, Prince Kíli,” she says, forcing herself back into a more appropriate, formal tone.

“Y’know,” Kíli says, squinting up at her, “if you keep insisting on calling me _Prince_ Kíli, I’ll have to insist on calling you _Lady_ Tauriel. It’s only right.”

There’s a spark in his dark eyes that tells her he is teasing her, but she feels the tips of her ears turn red anyway. “Well, it… it is your title…” she flounders.

“That it is, my lady, that it is,” he says, nodding solemnly, and then smiles up at her again and says, gently, “Tomorrow would be perfect. Say around noon?”

She nods and returns his smile, despite the way she can feel her face heating, and they walk on in companionable silence for a short while, before Kíli asks, “Er, where?”

“Hm?” She blinks, looking down at him questioningly.

“Where should we meet tomorrow?” Kíli clarifies. “I don’t suppose they have an actual shooting range around here…”

“Oh. No… Actually, I usually go into the Netherwood right near your smial to practice,” she admits.

“Really?” Kíli grins up at her, and she nods.

“Many hobbits frequent the Bindbale Woods near my home, looking for mushrooms or rabbits or just enjoying the shade under the trees,” she explains, “whereas the Netherwood is almost always uninhabited, except during the Sows End festival at the end of autumn. And not least because the Rushock Bog lies just on the other side of the trees,” she adds with a conspiratorial smile. “Well out of danger of anyone getting injured. I usually bring my own targets, unless you would prefer to use yours?”

“Akh, no,” Kíli sighs, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “I have my bow and arrows, but nothing more than that, I’m afraid. Honestly, I brought it along half-hoping we’d run into trouble along the road here,” he says ruefully.

“And did you?” she asks, smiling.

“No!” Kíli sighs expansively, throwing his hands up. “Months on the road and not an orc or goblin in sight! And _inns_ almost the entire way too! I barely got to shoot at any _game_ , let alone any enemies!”

“A true hardship,” Tauriel agrees, nodding.

“Truly,” he agrees, before smirking up at her with a gleam in his eye. “But that will change soon, I’m sure, there must be _many_ such dangers lurking in the dark places of the Shire.”

“Hobbits can be plenty terrifying with nothing more than a pitchfork, when it comes to it,” she tells him, “but most of my arrows have been expended in the wilds beyond the borders of the Shire, where evil still lurks. Bilbo and I are not unaccustomed to encountering goblins and even orcs barely two days’ walk from this peace and quiet.”

“‘Expended’ is an apt word, if the orcs of the west are as thick-skulled as those that dwell near Erebor,” Kíli grumbles. “How do you keep your supply replenished, without a weaponsmith? I have to forge new arrowheads after every skirmish, there are so few that can ever be recovered.”

“I fletch my own arrows,” Tauriel says, “but I’m afraid I must buy the arrowheads. There’s a merchant in Michel Delving who sells high quality iron heads, in a variety of shapes and sizes.”

“Oh, I thought these hobbit smiths weren’t much for weaponry,” Kíli remarks cheekily.

“The Shirefolk do their fair share of rabbit and fowl hunting,” she responds, smiling, “but no, these are not made in the Shire. I believe their supply is brought in periodically by the caravans passing to and from the Blue Mountains.”

“So they’re dwarf-made,” Kíli grins.

Tauriel blinks, then gives a small laugh. “I suppose they are.”

They continue on toward Waymeet, exchanging stories of adventures and mishaps in the wilderness, the differences between the orcs north of the Lonely Mountain and those that prowl this far west, and the best techniques to fletch an arrow. Their conversation flows easily, as the spring breeze blows the pleasant scents of holiday ash and good tilled earth over them and the sun drifts lazily past its zenith into the afternoon. It is only as they near the outskirts of the town that Tauriel realizes they have been talking for near to an hour, as easily as old friends.

Between the long walk along the Great Road and the amount of time they’d spent lingering over luncheon in Bywater, it is nearing afternoon tea by the time they make it into Waymeet. Tauriel can tell that Bilbo is growing a little anxious as he glances about at the crowds of hobbits around them, even as he keeps up his discussion of proper tomato growing techniques with Bofur. The dwarves both look interested in the sprawling marketplace – Waymeet is a larger town than either Hobbiton or Bywater, and boasts a few more dealers of foreign goods, including some that are most definitely dwarven in origin, she notices, now that Kíli has pointed it out to her. Bilbo just shakes his head and hurries them on past, muttering that they’ll never get a good table in the Noonbelly Tea Room at this rate.

They do, of course, get a perfectly lovely table. Afternoon tea is always a somewhat formal affair among hobbits, but nowhere more so than the West Farthing’s most famous tea room. From the chandeliers to the polished floors to the delicate porcelain and real silver dinnerware, the Noonbelly has on display the finest of everything, the height of West Farthing culture. Bilbo doesn’t often get the chance to come out here for such a lavish afternoon tea, but Tauriel is hardly surprised to find them exactly on time for a meal at yet another of his favorite spots.

Kíli and Bofur look around appreciatively after they’ve been seated, the different tones of wood inlaid to create pastoral scenes on the walls of the dining room drawing their particular interest. Bofur, seemingly having found his way around her good friend, once again draws Bilbo into lengthy descriptions of the process by which the structural art is created. Kíli comments that it’s not so unlike mosaic gem work from among his people.

The standard afternoon tea menu at the Noonbelly Tea Room saves them the trouble of ordering, and soon the uniformed servers bring around silver trays containing multiple porcelain tea pots and cups and saucers, as well as trays piled high with tiny sandwiches and cakes, arranged in delicate, complex geometric shapes. When the servers have left them to their meal, Bilbo narrates his way around the table, explaining each of the teas and accompaniments with the air of an expert pleased to share his knowledge.

“We should have some of this sent up to Netherfield for Mother and Balin and Dori,” Kíli muses, sipping at a cup of red tea.

“Always wise to buy your way into the good graces of the Tea Council,” Bofur agrees, grinning, and then adds more quietly, with a quick wink and a nudge to Kíli’s arm, “especially at a time like this.”

“What’s that now?” Bilbo speaks up, before Tauriel can inquire about what he means by ‘a time like this’. “The ‘ _Tea_ Council’?”

“My mother, her head guard Dori, and Dori’s husband Balin, who also happens to be the Chief Political Advisor to the Crown,” Kíli explains, reaching for another of the tiny sandwiches. “The three of them all have tea together at _least_ once a day, and by ‘have tea together’ I mean scheme and basically run the kingdom from their sitting rooms.”

“ _They_ run the kingdom?” Tauriel asks, only half teasing. “I was under the impression your uncle was the King Under the Mountain.”

“Well, yes,” Kíli says, looking up at her. “But Am— er, Mother is Keeper of the Realm, since Uncle doesn’t have a Consort.”

“You don’t say,” Bilbo drawls sourly, and Tauriel glances briefly at him, not bothering to smother her grin. There are few who can hold a grudge like hobbits do, and in this Bilbo is a prime example of his race. Though they don’t tend towards violent blood feuds or other such ‘dramatics’ – as Bilbo has exasperatedly referred to the various wars and age-old conflicts between the different factions and kingdoms they’ve visited in the past – any hobbit of the Shire will remember for decades that you once slighted their great aunt’s secret blueberry muffin recipe, and will from then on find ways to slip in subtle, barbed comments about your apparent lack of taste whenever you’re anywhere in their vicinity. It’s… quaint, and sweet, and speaks to the gentler cultural attitudes that led Tauriel to fall so very much in love with this place and its people. It’s not as though hobbits take their offenses any less seriously than other peoples – but compared to the atrocities committed in other parts of the world, the number of lives lost and homes destroyed, all in the name of a simple misunderstanding, of a petty ruler too proud to seek or accept an apology for a thoughtless, even unintentional insult… No, Tauriel will happily take a sneered comment and the occasional stolen spoon over any of that.

They finish their tea and then linger awhile in the attached shop as Kíli and Bofur each pick out several tins of the flavors they’d sampled to have sent up to Netherfield, Kíli for his mother and Bofur for his brother Bombur, who is apparently their company’s chef. Tauriel smiles to herself, something warm and soft unfurling in her chest as she watches Kíli, thinking on Prince Fíli’s earlier purchase in Hobbiton. The way the two princes speak and behave with regard to their mother reminds her of Belladonna, how she used to always come back in from her walks in the woods or to the marketplace and present she and Bilbo each with a small, shiny rock or a flower or some trinket, simply because, as she would say, “It reminded me of you!”

The dwarves’ warm, open manner and their very clear affection for their kin and company shouldn’t come as any surprise – and it _doesn’t_ , not really. It’s not as though Tauriel thought dwarves somehow incapable of love or any feelings besides greed and battlelust, though she supposes there are probably those who do believe just that. But it is touching to see firsthand how Kíli and his brother care for their mother, how they revere their uncle, regardless of whatever flaws he may bear, and how they treat those who must essentially be servants to them with nothing but friendship and respect. And what _is_ remarkable is how that easy camaraderie has extended to herself and Bilbo as well as all of the local hobbits they’ve encountered thus far today. Why, if someone had told her even a week ago that she would soon be enjoying a day full of quiet, pleasant conversation with a member of the royal family of Erebor, a kingdom as warlike and isolationist as any dwarven realm has ever been... She’d have thought they’d been smoking too much pipeweed, and that they must have begun to see fairies and sprites and others such things that are about as likely as a dwarf striking up a friendship with an elf.

And yet here she is, she thinks, returning the smile Kíli directs up at her as he finishes paying for their order and finally steps away from the counter.

They emerge from the quiet of the tea shop into the bustling streets of Waymeet, the marketplace a hive of activity in the afternoon sun. Though Waymeet is still small next to Michel Delving, Bilbo explains as he leads them on a strolling tour of the shops, it boasts quite a few goods imported from the other Farthings as well as from beyond the bounds of the Shire. There are more manufactured items to be found here as well, more tailors and book-binders and potters than the largely agricultural markets of Hobbiton and Bywater, and even one little jeweler's shop that quickly catches the dwarves’ eyes. Much of it is of hobbitish make, of course, little copper and brass ornaments studded with flecks of pretty, but non-precious, stones in floral and fauna designs. The Shirelings take as much pride in their own creations as any people do, but Tauriel cannot help noticing once again how many fine dwarven pieces there are amongst the more practical, hobbitish metalwork on display.

One small set of jewelry does actually catch her eye: a pair of tiny hummingbirds wrought in brass, incredibly detailed and delicate. A simple stud and post design that would sit flat against her ear, not an impediment in any way… but still an indulgence, entirely unnecessary. She allows her fingertips to linger on the soft velvet of the little display box for just a moment before pulling her hand back with a quiet sigh and moving on to rejoin Bilbo at the window display of colorful waistcoats across the way. Tauriel rarely has an excuse to come to Waymeet, so she allows herself the luxury of a little window shopping as well, enjoying her friend’s rambling commentary on the local fashions.

They meander their way through the marketplace for a while more as the sun continues to slide westward through the sky, the four of them parting to peer into different shops as they walk and reconvening several minutes later, until they find their way to the edge of the market as the town begins to peter out around them.

“Well,” Bilbo says as they once more begin to leave the shops and houses and smials behind in favor of open, rolling hills. “Netherfield lies just to the north of us here, as I’m sure you already know,” he tells Bofur and Kíli, “and further west down the Great Road is Michel Delving. It’s a lovely town, and the caravans from Ered Luin stop there each year, so there’s plenty of shopping and restaurants, and of course the Farthing Offices and the Mathom House to see, but it’s also a longer walk than that between Bywater and Waymeet. You could make a daytrip of it easily enough, though.”

“We’ll have to see about doing that sometime this summer,” Bofur muses, nodding with a smile.

They turn north out of town, following the country road as it curves gently past fields and farmhouses, and Tauriel is again struck by the comfortable camaraderie that she and Kíli fall so easily into as they walk, the dwarf prince eagerly asking about the various meanings of the flowers they spy beside the road and in front gardens. Perhaps even more surprising is the realization of how much she doesn’t want this day to end, how she finds herself wishing the road would go on a little longer before they near the dwarves’ rented home and have to part ways for the evening.

How strange it is that an elf of the Greenwood should wish for more time to spend with a prince of Erebor – but then she is hardly _of the Greenwood_ anymore, and far from a typical example of her people, she reminds herself. She looks ahead to where Bilbo walks, talking animatedly with his hands as he tells Bofur some story, and can’t help the soft smile that spreads across her face. The Shire, and the dear friends she has found here, have certainly changed her, and perhaps this place has already begun to work its charms on the visiting dwarves as well, she thinks, smiling down at Kíli as he draws her attention once more.

The road splits ahead, the left fork angling away towards Netherfield while the right leads on to Hobbiton, an obvious end to the tour and their day together. A grand old oak tree marks the crossroads, sitting just at the edge of the farmlands, and in the shade beneath it Tauriel can make out a lone person, leaning up against the trunk and smoking a pipe. As they walk nearer, the figure resolves into Bifur, looking as resigned and unamused as the last time they saw him, and Tauriel knows Prince Fíli must be nearby as well, though he is not immediately evident.

Bofur hails his cousin with a call and a wave as they draw closer, which Bifur returns with a raised hand and then a series of quick gestures.

“Fíli’s around the other side of the tree,” Kíli explains, glancing up at Tauriel as he steps off the road and into the long grasses, as if bidding her to follow. She and Bilbo do so, rounding the tree partway while Bofur lingers behind to talk with his cousin.

Prince Fíli is, indeed, sprawled in the soft meadow grass behind the tree, eyes closed and hands behind his head as he soaks up the golden afternoon sunlight. His clothes and hair are both in similar states of disarray, his tawny leather surcoat tossed aside nearby and his boots rather conspicuously unlaced about his ankles. The grass around him has been flattened in… interesting patterns.

“What happened to you?!” Kíli exclaims, taking in his brother’s mussed appearance.

“I got mobbed,” Fíli sighs contentedly, not opening his eyes or removing his hands from behind his head. “It was _amazing_.”

Bifur signs something to the two other dwarves, the movement catching Tauriel’s gaze from the corner of her eye, and both Kíli and Bofur’s eyes widen almost comically at whatever he says. Tauriel is quite certain she doesn’t want to know the details, especially when Bofur whistles and says, “Well that’s one way to start the summer.”

The older dwarf guard glances back at his charge at last, eyes flinty, and growls out something unintelligible around the stem of his pipe.

“Alright, alright,” Fíli sighs good-naturedly and finally sits up to begin making himself presentable once more. Tauriel turns away, giving the elder prince a little privacy as he hauls himself to his feet and sets his clothing to rights.

“Well, today has been quite lovely,” Bilbo says, clasping his hands before him, “but it seems it’s come time for us to part ways. Prince Kíli, Prince Fíli, Bofur, Bifur,” he says, nodding to each in turn. “It has been splendid making your acquaintance. Please don’t hesitate to call on me at Bag End should you need anything during your stay here. I may not be Master of Netherfield,” he says with a grin, “but the role of host to anyone visiting the Shire falls on all of us landholders and magistrates. And there is little we hobbits take more seriously than making sure our guests feel welcome and comfortable,” he concludes, with a sly look towards Fíli – who doesn’t even bother to wipe the smug smile from his face as he slides his surcoat into place across his shoulders.

Tauriel catches Kíli rolling his eyes just a little, and has to hide her own smile in response.

“If today was any indication of how seriously you Shirefolk take _food_ , we’ll be in for a right comfortable summer, I’d wager,” Bofur laughs, offering a short, parting bow as Bilbo chuckles and begins to step back, heading towards the road once more.

“All the more fuel for the fire of a good sparring session – or archery practice, as it were,” Kíli says, grinning and turning to look up at Tauriel. “Noon in the Netherwood, did we say? Where shall we meet you?”

“Oh I think I shall find you easily enough myself,” she answers, feeling the corner of her mouth curl up in a smile. “Until tomorrow, then, Prince Kíli.”

“Until tomorrow, Lady Tauriel,” he says with a slight bow and a cheeky grin at the exchange of honorifics.

She smiles at the little private joke and returns his bow, before turning to make her way over to where Bilbo waits at the side of the road.

“Oh, Tauriel, wait!” Kíli calls just as she takes a step away from him.

“Yes?” she asks, pausing and looking back at him.

“I, um, I wanted to give this to you…” he mumbles, seeming suddenly shy as he fumbles a small wooden box out of one of the inner pockets of his many layers, holding it out to her in the palm of his hand.

Tauriel reaches to gently lift it from his palm, and carefully opens the lid to reveal a pair of tiny, delicate, metal hummingbirds in a bed of dark velvet.

“I saw you looking at those before, in the shop,” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck and looking up at her through his lashes. “I hope you don’t mind, I just thought… Well. You’ve been so kind to me – and my brother, and our friends, of course – and I just wanted to, um...”

“They’re beautiful, Kíli,” Tauriel says, at a loss for anything to say beyond the absolute, honest truth. “Thank you.”

Kíli beams up at her. “I thought – well the design, it’ll sit flat against your ears, practical for a warrior such as yourself. I could make you more like that,” he adds suddenly, and then flushes, ducking his head. “I mean, if you wanted… and if we had a forge here, of course, which we don’t, so, um…”

“All the more reason for us to get back there and _build_ one!” Bofur calls from the edge of the road, and they both start, Tauriel almost surprised to realize that the other dwarf is still lingering, waiting for Kíli, while Bifur and Fíli have already begun to make their way back towards Netherfield. Bofur gives Kíli an intense look, with a quick jerk of his head in the direction of Netherfield and Fíli and Bifur’s retreating forms.

“Right,” Kíli says, before looking up at her one more time. “Farewell until tomorrow, Tauriel,” he breathes, his pronunciation making her skin tingle crown to toe. He holds her gaze as he backs away, only turning from her when he meets Bofur where he waits at the side of the road. The hatted dwarf sends her and Bilbo a jaunty wave goodbye, and then the two of them turn to walk back towards Netherfield, though Kíli does look back over his shoulder at her once more before the spreading branches of the tree block them from view at last.

Tauriel stands for a moment catching her breath, then turns back in the direction of Hobbiton, where Bilbo has been waiting for her, a knowing look on his face.

Knowing what, she isn’t quite sure herself.

 

* * *

 

"Did you know this place has no fewer than five back entrances?" Nori asks into the pitch blackness, sliding into bed next to his apparently already sleeping husband.

"Yes," comes Dwalin's vague grunt in reply.

“Of course you did,” he grins, settling himself comfortably down against the pillows. No matter how silent he is sneaking into and out of the smial, or into their shared bedroom, Dwalin always seems to know exactly when Nori has come to bed – or when he enters any room, really. Between warrior’s instincts and the call of his One, the Kingsguard is the only person who can ever reliably track Nori’s movements. And with an honesty Nori would rarely express out loud, he genuinely wouldn’t have it any other way.

Not that he doesn’t try and surprise Dwalin from time to time anyway.

"I got the most interesting report from the Ravens today," he says casually, pulling his fingers through his unbraided beard.

"No state secrets in bed," Dwalin grumbles, burrowing further into his pillow.

Nori snickers, shaking his head. "No, no, nothing like that. I just happen to know who Kíli's One is now."

He can easily sense when Dwalin comes more fully awake, shining eyes finding him easily in the darkness of their room. "The lads said they were off to seek her out this morning," he says slowly.

"And so they did," Nori answers, nodding. "Spent the whole day with her."

"Red hair, freckles? That's what Ori reported back, anyway."

"That's the one," Nori says, and then smirks at the pun he's made.

Dwalin is silent for a long moment, though Nori can still feel his gaze on him and knows he hasn't fallen back to sleep yet. "So are you going to tell Dís and Thorin who she is?" his husband asks at last.

"Oooh no," Nori replies, shaking his head and grinning up at the ceiling. "That is entirely Kíli's boulder to move." And this is the sort of news that could very easily result in the messenger's murder in addition to the expected prolicide. No, he's staying well clear of this one... though he’ll enjoy watching the fallout when the youngest prince does finally inform his esteemed mother and uncle of the identity of his soulmate.

"Isn't telling others' secrets in your job description?" Dwalin mumbles, scooting over to sling a massive arm across Nori's midsection and pressing his face into the curve of his husband’s neck.

"Only when it's a matter of national security," he answers, absently running a hand through Dwalin's unbound hair and over the tattoos that adorn the top of his head, one of which features Nori's name. No, tattling on the boys has never been in his repertoire, and thankfully neither Dís nor Thorin have ever expected him to do so. Like their guards, the royals would never be able to fully trust him if they felt they had to hide things from Nori. In many ways, keeping their secrets is an even larger part of his job than revealing anyone else’s. Besides, Dís often seems to just _know_ when her sons have been up to no good, and that parental instinct is helpfully supplemented by Dori's keen ear for gossip. And, of course, the Ravens can be chatty little bastards when they feel like it, and nothing escapes their eyes. Case in point.

And anyhow, a dwarf’s Quest to find their One is an intensely private matter. Traditionally speaking, the other ten of them who aren’t directly related to Kíli shouldn't even be here, but they couldn't very well have the entire Royal Family of Erebor off gallivanting across Middle Earth all by themselves. Nori's job has always been to ferret out secrets that could harm the kingdom, the crown, and the line of Durin, and that hasn't changed just because they've left the Mountain. But while this bit of information is certainly a juicy one, it doesn't actually pose any threat to the royal family... especially since Nori's allegiance to them now technically also extends to a certain ginger-haired elf formerly of Mirkwood.

Dwalin gives a quiet snore against his shoulder and Nori hums in agreement, setting his thoughts aside as he leans his cheek against the top of his husband’s head and follows him into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN 1: Emma Racine deFleur was a real person (we think???), but we literally could not turn up any information about her beyond a few little poetic quotes like the one featured at the beginning of the chapter. So as far as anyone over here knows, she might actually have been a hobbit. ;)  
> AN 2: Why yes, that was Bofur quoting the great Leslie Knope.  
> AN 3: HANDFLEX!
> 
> Sindarin terms  
> Ered Luin - Blue Mountains  
> Ithil Galad - Fire Moon


	5. Flirting With Arrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tragedy! Disaster! Calamity! Oh, the pain which twists the heart of a lover, when their One is injured!_
> 
> -Excerpt from The Official Account of the Quest for the Soulmate of Prince Kíli of Erebor, Son of Dís, Daughter of Thráin, as recorded by the King’s Scribe Ori, son of Vuori

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN1: And we're back! Sorry for the long wait, but it's summer again, which means it's time for more summer romcom fic! Enjoy ;D
> 
> AN2: Please remember that Thorin very famously got lost in the Shire _twice_ , just while trying to find Bag End. His directions are not necessarily reliable.

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

He wakes with the first light of dawn, as he has each morning since coming to this place. He’s spent nearly every day of his life inside the Mountain, neither knowing nor caring what hour the sun chose to rise, but here it is as though he can sense it in his blood, in his bones, despite the nearest window being beyond his door and all the way down the hall.

He wonders if it’s because of _her._ At this point he wonders that about pretty much everything.

It’s been two weeks, and he’s yet to tell Tauriel, can’t find the words to say it in a way that won’t scare her off, as Fíli keeps warning him against. But it’s getting easier to think around her, the more time he spends in her presence, the more days that pass, feels nearly clear headed when he looks at her. Nearly, anyway.

His dreams are another matter, and it takes a moment for him to come to full wakefulness, and then he remembers that today they are meeting for archery practice again. It has quickly become part of his routine at Netherfield, he and Bofur slipping off every few days to meet Tauriel in the Netherwood, for what Bofur once privately termed, “flirtin’, with arrows.”

Kíli’s ears still turn a bit pink at the thought of it. He knows he needs to give her space, time to get to know him, he’s not _trying_ to flirt, but, well— She’s Tauriel. He’s in love with her, because of course he is, _she’s Tauriel_. He can’t help but comment on every little wonderful detail of her being, at least _some_ of the time. He’s lucky – they’re all lucky – that Fíli’s constant fierce reminders have kept him from blathering on endlessly, like an over-stoked forge. A compliment now and then seems utterly reasonable in comparison to everything Kíli _wants_ to say to her.

And if that looks like flirting, well who could blame him? It’s hardly his fault.

He pulls himself upright, throwing his blankets off and swinging his feet down to the floor. It’s such a different feel: solid earth beneath him, but none of the resounding depth of stone, a mountain warmed by countless hearthfires and countless lives, instead now surrounded only by quiet dirt and a handful of his friends and family. He can make out general shapes in the pitch darkness of his room, but reaches over to light the small oil lamp on the bedside table, wanting clear light by which to see as he readies himself for the day.

A clean tunic from the wardrobe – in a dark green not unlike the shade Tauriel usually favors, he thinks with a smile – a pair of simple, dark trousers, and his usual surcoat he lays out on the bed before he washes. He has always favored green, but he finds himself now wishing he’d brought a few more of that shade, a few less in browns and blues. That, or he’ll need to start volunteering for laundry duty more often, he thinks wryly.

The hobbitish plumbing in the washroom across the hall runs cold at first, and the bracing water banishes whatever lingering traces of sleep had still been clinging to him as he washes. He dresses quickly in the cool morning air, then sits in front of the looking glass atop his bedroom’s small vanity and pulls a comb through his dark hair for a few moments, loosening the night’s tangles and sorting the locks into as much order as they ever achieve, preparing the strands to be braided. All dwarves are taught from their earliest lessons that the act of braiding their hair each morning is meant to be a moment of quiet contemplation, but it wasn’t until that day twenty years ago, when Kíli had felt his One – Tauriel – moving further away from him, that he really understood the purpose of the daily ritual, the calmness and centering that came from familiar actions with specific intent, overlaid with the meaning behind each braid.

His military braid goes in quickly – not that his allegiance to or rank in the archers unit holds much meaning here, so far from the Mountain – followed by his jewelers guild braid, his fingers’ careful motions made smooth by long practice as he spares a thought for the friends and comrades he left behind in Erebor. As he shifts to start his family braid, his thoughts stray to his father, as they so often do, to the few years of childhood they had together before Víli was taken from them, and to the grandparents, great-grandparents, and uncle whom he never knew, all waiting for him in the Halls, with the rest of the House of Durin. He knows they can see him, watch over him, and he hopes they will today. He hopes he can make them proud.

When all that remains is his soulmate braid, Kíli turns his head to watch his fingers in the mirror, carefully selecting strands and beginning to plait them into the still-unfamiliar pattern that declares to any dwarf in the vicinity that he is no longer Questing but has instead, finally, Found his One, she is known to him and he to her. Tauriel noticed the change in his soulmate braid that first day after the Ashseed party, commented on it while Kíli was still too hungover to reply eloquently, and ever since, he has endeavored to craft the braid as precisely as he can, crisp and even, in case her sharp gaze catches on it again. Kíli has seen her regarding it more than once in the last two weeks, an expression on her (beloved) face like she was trying to puzzle out the mystery woven into the strands. But she has not asked, and Kíli has yet to find a way to broach the topic.

In the not too distant future, Kíli thinks, this braid may gain a companion of its own, a compatriot crafted in the pattern that declares to all and sundry that he is courting his chosen match. How, exactly, he will ask to court Tauriel is a problem Kíli has not yet fully tackled, but his mind skips past this obstacle and directly into the pleasant daydream of Tauriel accepting and allowing Kíli the privilege of plaiting the courting braid into her long red hair.

The manse is still quiet as Kíli slips out of his room and turns down the hallway toward the common areas, though there is light leaking from beneath more than a few doors, he notices. Bofur will be up with an early duty rotation just as Kíli, and Bombur is routinely awake and at work in the kitchen before anyone else emerges from their bedrooms. Netherfield is clearly a hobbithole made for entertaining many overnight guests, with hallways of even more bedrooms than the sprawling Company could use branching off before Kíli reaches the main living area. He passes several little parlors, a well-stocked library, and the double doors of the ballroom before cutting through the dining room – tables and countertops still bare, waiting for Kíli to do his assigned chores this morning – to get to the kitchens, from which warm light and pleasant smells are already drifting.

Kíli pauses in the doorway of the large, cozily warm space to blink at Bombur, who is rolling out dough on one of the worktops, wearing a lace-trimmed apron that doesn’t come anywhere near to actually covering his front or protecting his clothing from splatters of flour and oil from the various dishes cooking around him. The apron hangs from about his neck, the waist-height ties looped into his belt rather than even attempting to span his full midsection, while the front instructs, in flowery, embroidered letters that are framed by the massive ginger loop of his beard, _Kiss the Cook_.

The chef looks up and nods a greeting to him, smiling and preening a little as he runs a hand over the embroidered apron. “I found it in one of the cupboards.”

For a moment, all Kíli can see in his mind’s eye is the image of Tauriel’s lips, her mouth curving up in a smile, looking soft and warm and _kissable_ , and he completely misses what Bombur says next, has to beg his pardon to repeat himself. The cook shoots him a sympathetic smile, fingering the gold locket nestled under his chin that houses the tiny portraits of his One and their three children.

Bombur sets Kíli the relatively simple tasks of frying up the mounds of bacon and stirring the wide pan of scrambling eggs for the Company, while Bombur begins grinding coffee beans into a large bowl from which they all can serve themselves. He takes up one of the little metal infusers from the nearby tray and spoons a small heap of grounds into it before dropping it into a mug and pouring hot water from the kettle over it, finally coming over to set it on the worktop near Kíli to steep.

“Thanks,” Kíli smiles up at him, and Bombur nods before returning to his own work overseeing multiple breakfast pies and pastries in various states of preparation. Kíli breathes in the rich aroma from the mug as he loads more eggs and bacon onto the cooktop, the deep, strong smell of coffee beans grown and harvested on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain a little touch of home in this faraway land. He takes a break after a little while, stepping back from the heat to mop at his sweating brow and check to see that his coffee is cool enough to drink.

As if summoned by the smell of the brewing coffee, Fíli comes stumbling into the kitchen, blinking blearily at Kíli and Bombur, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, hair and clothing askew as if he’s just rolled out of bed. “Coffee?” he rasps.

“On the tray there,” Bombur answers, not even attempting to downplay his amused grin at the elder prince’s appearance.

Fíli lurches forward but bypasses the spread of coffee grounds and mugs, instead making straight for Kíli’s already-poured cup.

“Hey! No! Get your own!” Kíli snaps, stepping between his brother and his coffee, brandishing his spatula, ready to strike.

“Is that bacon? Tell me that’s bacon,” Fíli says, already diverted by the sizzling meat on the stove.

“Of course it’s bacon! There’s always bacon!” Kíli actually does swat at him with his spatula now, but his brother makes off with a handful of the crispy strips anyway, laughing as he retreats in the direction of the coffee bowl again.

“So what are you doing today?” Kíli asks, turning back to the stove to make sure the eggs aren’t burning.

“I think you mean _who_ ,” Fíli says, waggling his eyebrows over his shoulder at Kíli as he sets his own coffee to steeping.

“Oh Durin’s beard, I don’t want to know.” Kíli turns back to the hob with a shudder.

“Well let me see now,” Fíli says around a bite of bacon, with false thoughtfulness. “There’s Pansy, Holfast, Camellia—”

“Please stop talking.”

“—Berylla, Melba, Theodrade, Mirabella—”

“ _Stoooop_.”

“—Faro, Adalard, Cotman—”

Kíli turns to Bombur in desperation. “A little help here?!”

The cook just chuckles and shakes his head without looking up from the pans he’s pulling from the oven. “I’ll not try to stand between a young, unattached dwarf and his fun.”

“—Grimald, Shanna, Honeysuckle, Rudibert—”

“This is scarring me for life, I hope you know that. You’re supposed to be here supporting me, and what are you doing? _Half the Shire_ , that’s what!”

Fíli shrugs, smirking unapologetically. “Just haven’t gotten around to the other half, yet,” he grins.

“There had better be coffee to go with this Valar-forsaken conversation I’ve just walked into,” comes the unmistakable voice of their mother as she strides through the doorway of the kitchen, fully dressed and coiffed but her eyes still squinted up against the early morning light filtering in through the kitchen windows. From the hallway beyond her come more sounds of waking dwarves, doors creaking and footsteps shuffling across floorboards towards the large dining room.

Bombur laughs cheerily, sliding a tray of breakfast pies into the oven before directing Amad to the coffee grounds and handing her a mug.

“Make yourself useful and take this out to the table,” she says, nudging Fíli with an elbow and indicating the tray of coffee fixings after she steps back with her own mug in one hand and a platter of crispy, golden pies in the other.

Fíli raises his eyebrows at his brother through the steam from his coffee before doing as he’s told. Kíli rolls his eyes, but for a moment the kitchen is quiet save for the sounds of cooking food as Amad and Fíli step into the dining room.

“You are being safe, of course, mim’amralê?” his mother’s voice drifts in through the open doorway.

“Yes, Amad,” Fíli answers. “I’ve made my intentions – or lack of – exceptionally clear, and the hobbits all seem perfectly fine with that. And, truth be told, I think they might be able to teach us a few things about treating and preventing venereal disease.”

“Really.” Amad’s tone is flat, but Kíli can still hear the amusement in her voice. He turns his attention back to the food on the hob with a shudder, really not needing to hear anything more of his brother’s apparently numerous exploits.

The eggs and bacon each fill their respective platters and Kíli carries them out to the sturdy wooden buffet set along one wall of the dining room before heading back into the kitchen for more. Bombur has filled another few platters with his savory breakfast pies and Kíli carries those out too as the sounds of footsteps and quiet, mumbling voices draw nearer down the corridor, the others beginning to trickle in for breakfast. They serve themselves from the platters Kíli sets out and then seat themselves around the long dining table in little familial and marital clumps. His mother sits with Fíli on one side and Dwalin on the other, Nori beside his husband looking far too bright-eyed to have actually just woken. Most of the Company exchange little more than quiet, yawned greetings, though Bofur and Bifur seem to be embroiled in some discussion about small mechanical parts for toymaking when they come in from their early duties out in the stables.

Everyone is at the table chatting amiably, even Kíli and Bombur settling in with their food now that their work in the kitchen is done with, when Uncle Thorin enters the room and helps himself to a plate of food. Most of the dwarves don’t seem to pay him any mind beyond a simple, respectful nod towards their king, though Kíli does notice several of the senior advisors – Balin, Dwalin, Nori – seeming to watch Thorin, and, across the table from Kíli, Amad seems suddenly much more tense.

Fíli shoots him a look as Thorin drops into the seat next to Kíli. They’re both acutely aware of the stormclouds that have been brewing between their mother and uncle, little sniped comments over the last few weeks that have settled into a stony, ongoing silence interspersed with short, sharp skirmishes.

“Good morning, Uncle,” Kíli says, glancing at him sidelong.

“Morning,” Thorin grunts, and Kíli sees his mother’s eyes twitch narrower for half a second.

“Do you have anything planned for today, Uncle?” Fíli tries next, a congenial smile on his face as he leans one elbow on the table.

“No,” Uncle Thorin answers shortly, not looking up from his food.

“You could always come into town with Bifur and I—” Fíli starts to say, when their mother cuts him off.

“Kíli, dear,” Amad says loudly, “I’ve heard all about your brother’s plans, but not yours. What are you up to today?”

He has to swallow his mouthful of food before he can respond. “Oh, um. We’re going to spend the day on archery practice, in the Netherwood.”

Amad quirks one eyebrow but nods. That he is meeting his One goes entirely without saying by this point, and archery practice is a common enough pastime for them, especially since the hobbits around here use bows and arrows along with their traps to catch rabbits and other small game. The story thus far – not a lie exactly, just an _omission_ , allowing Amad and all the others to make whatever assumptions they will without, at least so far, correcting them – is that Kíli has been teaching his One greater archery skills, being a master archer and a fully trained member of the archery unit of Erebor’s military himself. None of them would guess that _she_ has actually been teaching _him_ a thing or two.

Well, almost none. Fíli looks far too amused at Kíli’s discomfort, Bofur is cheerfully not making eye contact with him, and Nori… Nori just looks incredibly smug, which, admittedly, isn’t that uncommon for Nori, but right now he’s being smug _in Kíli’s direction_. Kíli doesn’t have to ask how the spymaster knows his secret: the Ravens follow Kíli everywhere, as they do with all of the royal family and most of the Company, and if the Ravens know who he is going off to meet each day, then Nori knows. And Nori apparently knows that Kíli knows that he knows, going from the looks he keeps shooting Kíli from Amad’s other side.

Beside Nori, Dwalin’s brows make a thick, flat line low over his eyes as he chews his food and studiously glares into the middle distance. Dwalin no doubt also knows that Nori knows, and that Kíli knows that Nori knows, but he is, at least for now, keeping well clear of all of it.

“And,” Amad asks, her tone careful, drawing Kíli’s attention back to her, “what are your plans for this evening? Should we perhaps set another plate for supper?” Kíli freezes with his mug halfway to his mouth, staring across the table at her, the thought of Tauriel here, within these walls, breaking bread with his kin... Amad sighs at his silence. “I know you need to… give her time,” she says slowly, “but do you have any sense of when she might be ready to meet us?”

“And when we can finally get out of here,” Uncle Thorin mutters into his pie, and Amad’s gaze immediately snaps to him.

“What was that?” their mother asks, her tone low and quiet.

Kíli shoots a panicked look around the table as lightning seems to crackle between Amad and Thorin, finally meeting his brother’s gaze. It’s not as if Kíli doesn’t know how uncomfortable this process has been for all of them, how much this quest of his has inconvenienced them all, the whole kingdom really, but he can’t just—

“Well,” Fíli starts loudly, looking between their mother and uncle, “it is important to remember just how foreign this business of soulbonds is to the other races, so we really can’t rush things. You know, Kíli and I were actually discussing the other day that it might be better for her to meet us one at a time rather than—”

“Oh yes, let’s draw this out,” Thorin grouses.

“If you’re so impatient,” Amad says, her over-sweet tone belied by her bared teeth, “why don’t you go find some way to occupy yourself in the meantime?”

“What would you suggest?” Thorin snarls back at her. “There’s nothing here but trees and grass and sheep. Maybe I should take up farming, make myself over as a hobbit so Kíli’s One won’t be so embarrassed to be seen with our kind—”

“I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU DO!” Amad roars over him, slamming her hands down on the table and half-rising from her seat. “Go outside, go to market, go walk around the countryside – I don’t care, just _stop sitting around here like a sulky troll!_ ”

Thorin’s chair hits the wall behind him with enough force to dent the plaster, and the smial echoes with his stomping footsteps for a minute before the walls shake as he slams the front door behind himself.

“Well,” Nori says in the stunned silence that settles over them in Uncle Thorin’s wake. “That could have been worse.”

 

* * *

 

He sets out across the wide meadow before Netherfield, no particular destination in mind, just _out_. _Away_. The rising sun is in his eyes, making him squint and glower as his head pounds in time with his heart. The river falls in beside him on his left, chirruping and cheerful as it dances past on its way northward. The little pebbles of the bank crunch beneath his boots as he finally frees himself from the waist-height grasses. There are birds singing in the trees across the water, sheep lowing in the meadow on his other side, and the distant melody of fieldhands keeping time with each other as they begin their day’s work.

The Shire seems to consist of everything bright and happy in the world, and Thorin _hates it_.

He wonders if he would hate it more, or less, if it didn’t so closely resemble his dreams of the past several decades.

He gives a sigh of relief, shoulders loosening marginally as his headache finally seems to abate a little as he walks. Perhaps Dís was right; perhaps what he really needed was some fresh air, some easy exercise, some solitude in which to hear himself think. Not that he’ll tell her that, he thinks with a twist of his lips: Dís’s council is so often invaluable to him, her steady care for kin and kingdom alike in her role as Keeper of the Realm making her a true partner to the Crown, his perfect counterbalance in so many ways, but in this, when it comes to Thorin’s health, he cannot allow her a single inch. Admitting she had the right of it, of _this_ , in any way, will lead – has led, in the past – to only increasing worry and pointless fussing as his sister wrings her hands over a theory that has absolutely no bearing on reality as far as Thorin is concerned.

He frowns down at his boots as he walks and lets himself drift northward with the running water, uncaring of where his feet take him at the moment – it’s not as if anyone could get lost in such a gentle, small country as this. Dís’s theory isn’t _entirely_ baseless, of course, it’s just… more a matter of projecting her own pains onto Thorin. She had been unwell after Víli died, though that was to be expected: the passing of a dwarf’s One is always traumatic, painful, and has even, at times, been known to claim the lives of those who were already sickly or wounded. But usually it passes, and the heart heals, and the distance between life and the Halls seems to lessen with each day.

Thorin’s pains, in contrast, have only seemed to grow with time. Even so, Dís thinks – and has Óin half-convinced as well – that Thorin’s headaches are simply a symptom of the same trials she had undergone: that he’d had a One, somewhere out in the world, but something had happened to them, whomever and wherever they were, before Thorin could ever find them. The fact that Thorin had never felt anyone out there before, had never felt any pull, any Longing, any _anything_ before his migraines began seems of little consequence to his sister, as does the fact that this illness did not befall him until well into his second century, long past the age at which he _would_ have gone in search of his One – _if he had one_.

Even more damning, of course, is the fact that no one ever came in search of _him_. Even if something has, somehow, gone wrong within himself, even if Thorin is somehow defective, his One – if he had one – would have come to find him when they came of age. But they didn’t. No one did.

He shakes his head, thrusting such pointlessly maudlin thoughts from his mind. Not all dwarves have a One – nearly half their kind, in fact, exist perfectly happily on their own, finding companionship where they will, taking joy in their crafts, never yearning for anything or anyone more than what the Maker has blessed them with. There is no reason that Thorin should not be the same.

He takes a deep breath, tilting his head back and letting the breeze lift his hair away from his neck, gaze alighting on the small cluster of ravens gliding along through the air above him, watchful as ever. They call quietly between themselves as they fly, and Thorin is able to pick out a few exchanged words from their guttural tongue, idle chatter and gossip about the comings and goings of the Company and whatever halflings they can see from their vantage point. The birds will make themselves scarce once he reaches town, abiding by their standing orders to disturb regular life in this place as little as possible—

Thorin frowns, eyes dropping back to the land around him, the sun rising into its second hour before him and the river flowing north beside him, and wonders when it was he decided to go into the hobbitish town across the water.

He passes the footbridge they’d used to approach the festival some weeks ago, continuing along the river as he mulls this over. After growing so irritated around his own kin – he winces at the memory of Kíli’s hurt expression, his shocked silence after Thorin’s comments. He’ll apologize when he returns home, and find some way to make it up to the lad – he can’t imagine that being surrounded by gossipy little halflings will improve matters much. The solitude and relative quiet of the countryside has indeed lightened his mood, so perhaps he ought to simply stay out here— Thorin feels a stab at the base of his skull at the same moment that his stomach gives an angry rumble, reminding him that he’d stormed out without eating much of anything at breakfast. The next moment, the wind shifts just a little, carrying on it the scents of baking bread and roasting meat, and Thorin stops resisting the urge to go into town.

There’s another bridge ahead, larger than the one they’d crossed before, and already beginning to grow crowded with wagons and ponies coming and going from town. He still draws plenty of stares as he falls in with the rest of the traffic making its way into Hobbiton, but not as many as Thorin would have expected. No doubt the result of his nephews’ gallivanting about the Shire the last few weeks, though a few halflings still freeze up when they catch Thorin’s glance and then exchange whispers between them once he has moved past. Like skittish little rabbits thinking they’ve sighted a predator.

Thorin snorts, scowling down at his boots as he marches through the crude little marketplace. It is not _his_ race that has been known to conquer and pillage and steal the land of other peoples they encounter.

The hobbits are out in force this morning, hawking their produce and livestock and useless little trinkets along the packed-earth roads of their town. At first it seems the only foodstuffs for sale are the green, leafy sorts – edible in a pinch but containing nowhere near the level of protein necessary to sustain a dwarf for long – but just beyond the farmers’ stalls is a little building from which waft the smells of frying bacon and ham and other things that set Thorin’s stomach to rumbling again.

He orders what sounds like a reasonable enough breakfast, and then when he pays, the hobbit lass behind the counter squints up at him, declares he needs to ‘get some sun,’ whatever that means, and promptly leads Thorin to one of their tables outside in front of the shop. The platter she brings out to him a few minutes later could feed two or three very hungry dwarves, but she cuts off Thorin’s protests, telling him he’s to eat it all and she’ll not hear any complaints, and then returns inside muttering under her breath about ‘pale, scrawny dwarves starving themselves!’ He shakes his head, thanking her anyway, and tucks into his food. Óin may nag him for working too long and neither eating nor sleeping enough, but even at his most harried Thorin is still twice the size, in weight if not height, of any of these halflings. Several ravens cackle their throaty laughs at his expense, enjoying the sight of their king getting scolded by a diminutive country bumpkin from their rooftop perches around the marketplace.

The sun does feel pleasant on his face, at least. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can hear Óin growling about the need for a layer of protective salve, that mountain dwarves like them aren’t built for so much direct daylight, but Thorin pushes the thought away, determined to simply enjoy this peaceful moment to himself, with hearty food before him and no one addressing him. The crowds and chatter of the hobbits break around him like river water around a solid, steady boulder, his usual migraine pangs muted to almost nothing, and for once, Thorin feels no drive to be somewhere else and nothing he must do at the moment but wait and let time pass as it will...

It is such a relief, like sinking into the baths at the hot springs under Erebor – or like the sunshine warming his hair and beard, he thinks with a small smile – such a relief to finally let go and accept at least a little of Dís’s advice to him: there is no rushing Kíli, or his One, and growing anxious and angry about it won’t change a thing. He only wishes he had been able to reach this elusive peace sooner in his waking mind. Thorin’s dreams have already seemed to reflect exactly what his sister has been telling him since they arrived. He no longer dreams of flying west over the mountains, almost as though his subconscious has been trying to tell him the very same thing as Dís: to relax, to accept where he is, to think of nothing more than eating and breathing and perhaps a little light entertainment wherever he might find it. There is nowhere to escape to now, and nothing to escape from: this is the nearest thing to a real holiday any of them will ever get, so he ought to at least try to enjoy it while he can.

Other elements of his age-old dream still persist, of course. The gentle, green country is still the backdrop for his nighttime visions, now so much more real than in his previous imaginings, as his sleeping mind incorporates his actual experiences of the Shire. Strangely, horribly, the sense of home, of belonging, still washes over him whenever he is in that dream, far beyond anything he has ever felt in Erebor, much less here in their rented hobbithole. And, strangest of all, where the dream has always before featured shapeless, indistinct masses of golden light, it has now coalesced into a single, recognizable form.

He frowns to himself, chewing through a bit of particularly dense sausage, the warmth of the sunshine and pleasantness of the breeze leaving his thoughts as he ponders the strange turn his dreams have taken of late. For decades, it had been the same thing, always escaping from the mountain, flying into the sunset, chasing the gold to its end, but now… At first Thorin thought he was merely remembering the night of the party shortly after they had arrived here. He doesn’t know why his subconscious has chosen to focus on that particular moment at the gate, much less that particular halfling – Mister Bilbo Baggins, Fíli and Kíli had reported, after their day spent with him and his elf friend – or why that halfling should appear as bright and golden as the greatest treasures of Erebor, why Thorin should wake up just after the hobbit turns to smile up at him, or why he should feel such a sense of loss upon doing so.

Dwalin wasn’t _wrong_ exactly that night, when he’d said the hobbit was Thorin’s type. Soft, golden curls like his have always been a feature to draw Thorin’s eye, even if the hobbit’s hair is far too short by dwarven standards. His eyes, from what Thorin recalls of that brief glimpse at the gate, aren’t quite any one color, but hint towards both emerald and amber. The beardless face is a little off-putting, but not as much as Thorin might have expected. The sun-browned quality of the halfling’s skin is uncommon amongst Thorin’s people, built as they are to dwell far beneath the ground, but more than once Thorin has been teased by his closest friends for his eye lingering a little too long on traders from the southern clans, their distant cousins who master the sand dunes and weather the sun’s fire every day.

Alright, so Dwalin was completely right about the hobbit being Thorin’s type. And it _has_ been a while… The requirements of his lifestyle as king don’t often afford Thorin the opportunity for anything casual, and he’s yet to meet anyone with whom he desired anything _more_ than casual, but if this time in the Shire is to be like a holiday… Well, perhaps Fíli has the right idea after all.

It doesn’t have to be _that_ hobbit, though, he reminds himself, grimacing as he remembers the incessant chatter at the gate, the halfling’s voice filling Thorin’s head to the point that nothing else could reach his ears, defending that elf…

Thorin squeezes his eyes shut once, shaking his head, and forces himself to look around the marketplace instead of dwelling too heavily on these thoughts as his headache makes a valiant effort at overtaking him again. He allows his gaze to wander aimlessly over the various shops facing the one at which his table is situated, gradually working his way through his enormous meal as he watches the residents of Hobbiton going about their morning routines and apparently having all but forgotten his presence by now. They are a happy, peaceful people, laughing easily and loudly as their children play around them. It has taken nearly all of Thorin’s life to return Erebor to a similar state, though their happiness has been earned through blood and sweat and many long years of toil. Nothing like the innocent simplicity of life here.

The crowds part for a moment, revealing a clear shot from Thorin’s table to one of the shops across the way, and a single hobbit standing in front of it, his back to Thorin as he finishes up an exchange of money with the vendor before him, but Thorin already knows beyond any doubt who it is: Bilbo Baggins, elf-befriender, corrupter of young dwarves, and unwitting bane of Thorin’s recent existence.

One large, pointed ear gives a visible twitch, and then Baggins is looking around, a frown on his face like he expects to be attacked at any moment, until his eyes land on Thorin.

Thorin swallows, knows he has been caught staring, yet finds himself still unable to look away. A thrum goes through him as the hobbit holds his gaze, not at all like the shrieking cacophony of their first meeting, but rather as if a harp were buried deep within his chest and gentle, expert fingers have begun to stroke out a pure, sweet melody across his ribs. Mister Baggins’ eyes dart around the marketplace for a second or two, and Thorin feels the exact moment when he decides he can’t actually pretend not to have noticed Thorin’s presence. The harp crescendos, echoing through his bones as the hobbit squares his shoulders and marches over to Thorin’s table.

“Mister Oakenshield,” Bilbo Baggins greets him, flashing a brief, polite smile and folding his arms so that the basket of green food hanging from his elbow sits between them. “Oh, please,” he says then, holding up a hand when Thorin begins to rise from his seat to greet him in kind, “I wouldn’t want to disturb your meal.”

“You’re not disturbing me,” Thorin says, frowning and sinking back into his seat. Not in the way the hobbit meant it, anyhow.

“I see you’re acquainting yourself with some of the local culture,” Baggins comments, nodding towards Thorin’s still heaping plate of food with a smile. “How are you liking our town so far?”

“It’s very,” Thorin looks around, searching for an appropriate descriptor, “quaint.”

Mister Baggins raises his eyebrows a little, letting out a small, “Indeed.” He looks away, licking his lips before meeting Thorin’s gaze once more, the sunlight catching on the veins of gold around the center of his eyes. “Your nephews both seem like very fine lads,” he says, smiling again. “I’ve quite enjoyed the time I’ve been able to spend with them.”

“They’ve spoken highly of your tour of the Shire as well,” Thorin responds, and then, without really thinking, adds, “though I wouldn’t have taken you for a tour guide. You look more like a grocer to me.” He smiles a little, with a quick glance down at the basket, laden with leafy greens and root vegetables, that hangs from the hobbit's arm.

Mister Baggins apparently doesn’t find that very funny, stiffening and drawing himself up to his full, entirely unimpressive height. “Well,” he sniffs, then mutters, “I suppose this means I’ve been promoted from ‘dirty food grower’ to ‘dirty food peddler,’ then?”

“What?” Thorin asks, blinking up at him, but the hobbit is already going on.

“And I certainly wouldn’t wish for you to mistake me for a guide,” he says, “as giving tours is really only enjoyable when one is amongst _pleasant_ company.”

“Pleasant company like that elf?” Thorin shoots back, scowling at the obvious jab. “Where is your other half today, anyway? From my sister-sons’ description, I had thought you two inseparable.”

“The same place she’s been for most of the last two weeks,” Baggins replies snidely, as if Thorin should know what that means. At his blank stare, though, the hobbit's eyes widen, realization obvious on his face for a moment before it turns amused and more than a little smug. “Well,” he says again, the hint of a smirk hovering around the corners of his mouth, “if you don’t know already, it’s certainly not my place to tell you.”

“If I don’t know what?” Thorin growls, hating the feeling that he’s being mocked – and hating even more that part of him somehow finds it _charming_.

“It’s really not my place to say,” the hobbit says again, as if demurring politely, an effect that’s belied by the wicked twinkle in his eye. “Now I’m afraid I really must be going. Must get all this home,” he says, gesturing with his overstuffed basket and shooting Thorin a withering look. “The work of a _grocer_ is never done, you know. Good day, Mister Oakenshield,” he adds with a brief tip of his head before turning to march resolutely away.

 

* * *

 

They pause their archery practice for a well-earned rest two hours past midday, Tauriel returning with Kíli and Bofur to the blanket where they had picnicked for luncheon a few hours earlier, the basket and their canteens tucked into the shade of a large oak deep in the Netherwood. Kíli carefully sets his bow and quiver down, then flops flat on his back on the blanket, chest heaving, while Tauriel sits cross-legged and allows herself the luxury of tilting her face up to the blue May sky, the laughter that has continually overtaken them throughout the day still bubbling up between her gasps for breath.

Kíli is a very good archer, Tauriel thinks, not for the first time, stealing a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. Each time they meet for archery practice she is surprised anew at how he challenges her, so different from the elven archers of her youth or even the bowcraft among the Rangers. He is not as light on his feet as she is, but sharp of eye and ear, and deceptively dexterous with his blunt fingers. She has tried to vary the placement of her traditional targets, arriving early to give herself time to hide them high in the branches, or obstructed such that they can only be hit from particular narrow angles. But even still Kíli keeps pace with her, matches her shot for shot, the both of them laughing all the way, and Bofur egging them on.

Tauriel accepts the canteen Bofur passes her from the picnic basket, taking long gulps of water to cool herself after the hours spent running and shooting amongst the trees. She declines the quarter sandwich Bofur offers her, gathering her hair into a loose bundle over one shoulder to let the breeze sweep across her heated skin. Kíli tilts his head back to look up at her from his place on the blanket, catching her eye and grinning upside down at her. She has to shake her head and glance away to try to take another drink around her own smile, turning her gaze up to the trees rather than meeting Kíli’s intense brown eyes again.

She notes that once again – just as every day since the dwarves came to stay at Netherfield – there are several large, black birds perched in the trees around them, four in Tauriel’s immediate eyeline. They are most certainly ravens, not the common crows native to the Shire. They seem especially intelligent for birds, and pay exceptionally close attention to the goings on of those walking about on two feet, dwarf, hobbit, or elf. In her youth she had heard tales of the ravens of the Lonely Mountain, but, never having seen one in person, considered the accounts more fantastical than factual. Tauriel wonders now if she should have given the old stories more credence, though she still hesitates to ask Kíli about the significance of the birds.

Chancing a glance in his direction, Tauriel finds Kíli gazing in open adoration at her hair, billowed and coiled loosely over her shoulder. Her eyes are drawn then by movement in the corner of her vision to Kíli’s fingers, twitching subtly against the plaid weave of the blanket, as though – Tauriel’s mind instantly supplies, unprompted – as though he is imagining plaiting the intricate dwarven braids that he wears into her long red hair.

She doesn’t know what, exactly, that would mean amongst his people, but she has to think it would be significant of _something_.

Prince Kíli has been unfailingly kind, attentive, and respectful towards her, his company exuberant and joyful and an utter pleasure, hours slipping by unmarked and conversation sprawling unbound. And unlike his brother, Kíli has not seemed inclined to pursue innumerable _romances_ with his hobbit neighbors, seeming to prefer spending his days with her and Bofur in the Netherwood or roaming the lanes of the West Farthing, or else closeted away at Netherfield absorbed in a project for which the word ‘forge’ has been frequently spoken.

That an elf of Mirkwood and a dwarf of Erebor could become such fast, easy friends is a fact she has been forced to accept under unrelenting evidence, but there is something particular to Kíli’s company above all others that draws her to him, makes her miss his companionship on those days when they do not meet. The feel of it tugging at her breastbone and weighing on the back of her mind brings with it thoughts of Bilbo, of Belladonna, of Arwen, and— Well. No amount of time or wishing will restore to her the friends that she has lost, the relationships that have run their course, but all the more reason to enjoy the time they have together now.

Especially those who are only here for the few months of the summer, she thinks with a smile, glancing back down at Kíli once more – only to find him still gazing happily up at her from his supine position.

“Do you suppose we have time today,” she asks, looking away and finding herself suddenly a little short of breath again, “for another round?” She hazards another look at Kíli and cannot resist returning his eager smile, “Perhaps moving targets this time?”

Kíli is instantly on his feet. “Yes, of course!”

“Oh, aye, it's been near a week since you two last murdered some pinecones. Wouldn't mind chucking them for you for a bit,” Bofur says, packing their supplies back into the basket the dwarves had brought with them while Tauriel climbs to her feet alongside Kíli.

She takes a moment to pull her hair into a loose bun at the back of her head, enjoying the feel of the breeze on her neck, then glances over to find Kíli watching her, his expression somewhat dazed. “Just worked up a bit of a sweat by now,” she says, shrugging.

Kíli blinks as though realizing he’s been staring, then turns back to gathering pinecones. “I thought elves didn’t sweat?” he says over his shoulder, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “That you lot just shine like the stars in battle or something like that.”

“Oh no,” Tauriel replies, laughing and shaking her head. “Trust me, that’s nothing but high elf propaganda.”

Bofur sing-songs something at Kíli in the dwarvish tongue, laughing from his place back at the blanket where he’s gathering up the pinecones Kíli and Tauriel have tossed towards him. At his words, though, Kíli turns to hurl a pinecone directly at the other dwarf’s head, his expression scandalized behind the two spots of color high on his cheeks.

Tauriel shakes her head again, turning away from them to venture further out into the trees of the Netherwood to find more pinecones. She can’t help but notice that the pile seems larger than the last time they met to practice together. In the last two weeks Tauriel has shot dead more pinecones than she’d ever taken individual notice of before. Bofur has a good arm, tossing them in high, long arcs, often changing his aim at just the last moment to throw both she and Kíli off. It’s a change of pace from her usual practice routine – she and Bilbo don’t actually have much use for _practice_ these days, as there’s plenty enough real fighting to be found north and east of the Shire, but Tauriel does try to at least set aside time for her own archery, keeping her longbow skills sharp through hunting and training on her own. These days spent with Kíli are different, though. It is not since her youth in the depths of the Greenwood that she has been able to let loose like this, to simply enjoy her weapon of choice, almost as a game, or that she even met anyone who enjoys it as she does.

She has also, certainly, she can admit to herself, been showing off a little for her new friends, though she has been in turn impressed and delighted by Kíli’s abilities with the bow as well. It is a delight only barely hidden behind a veneer of annoyance when he steals yet another shot from her, his arrow piercing Bofur’s latest throw a mere half-second before hers. Two can play at that, she decides, narrowing her eyes at Kíli as he crows with triumphant laughter.

She nearly takes Bofur’s hand off with her next shot, the pinecone barely out of his grip before her arrow reaches it. The hatted dwarf cries out and dives for the ground, then comes up again shaking his fist at her and laughing as he shouts what she can only assume are Khuzdul curses. Across from her, Kíli looks appropriately impressed, even through his laughter. Bofur launches three cones into the air at once after that, which they split between them, each of them taking one and hitting the third at precisely the same instant. On the next round, Tauriel waits, just half a beat, just enough time for Kíli to take aim and let loose – and then she shoots his arrow out of the sky just before it can reach the thrown target.

“What!” Kíli exclaims, and it’s a free-for-all from that moment on.

They both somehow end up in the trees, Tauriel running up trunks and across branches to send her shots out at unpredictable angles and even kick a few more pinecones into the air for their game. Kíli scrambles up into the lower boughs of one tree as if to keep pace with her, his climbing surprising quick and agile – for she would have thought dwarves would wish to keep in contact with the ground, as close as possible to the stone that bore them – and as fearless as he does everything. Bofur throws the next cone in a long arc, up between the trees, into the open sky, and Tauriel leaps off of her branch to line up a truly stunning shot from midair.

The sound of wood cracking yanks her gaze away from her target, and she hears Kíli cry out just before a searing pain lances up through her leg, and then the ground rushes up to meet her.

The world is a haze of light and silence, a muffled ringing in her ears as Tauriel tries to blink, tries to breathe, tries to remember what it feels like to be inside her own body. Distantly, she hears Kíli give a groan of pain, and thinks that she would concur had she any air in her lungs at the moment with which to do so… And then someone starts screaming, and the world clicks back into place.

“She’s dead! Oh Durin’s beard, you’ve killed her! She’s dead, she’s dead, you’ve killed her, she’s dead!”

“I am not dead,” Tauriel coughs out, keeping her voice steady through force of will alone as her breath comes slowly back to her. “Please stop yelling.”

Bofur goes on yelling, though he does switch to Khuzdul once more, so at least Tauriel doesn’t have to worry about paying attention to his words. Her head and back both ache from the fall, but the real pain seems to be radiating up from her leg, and she carefully begins pulling herself upright so that she can see the injury.

There’s an arrow protruding from the side of her leg, just behind and a little below her knee. The arrowhead is still buried in her flesh and, going from the deep, resonant sort of pain that washes through her at every twitch of her abused muscles, it has most likely scraped the bone.

She tamps down the nausea that rolls through her stomach and begins automatically reminding herself of the steps necessary to treat such a wound when one is alone and ill-equipped for medical emergencies. She’ll need to shorten the shaft as much as possible, so that it won’t catch on anything, and bind up the leg as best she can, and then find a branch she can fashion into a crutch… It will take a long while, but she should be able make it back home to Ithil Galad, where she has more supplies to work with… Or at least to Bag End. Bilbo won’t be happy about this turn of events, but they’ve both had plenty enough experience tying up each other’s wounds by now…

“Tauriel!” Kíli skids to a stop beside her, dropping to his knees and grabbing up her hand between both of his. “Oh, Targu Mahal, what have I done?!” He looks up into the trees then, at the ravens perched there and bellows, “UBSAT!” The birds all take wing in an instant, flying off in multiple directions and, somehow, echoing that one dwarvish word amongst their other hoarse cries.

“I… I need to go home,” Tauriel murmurs, watching the ravens all disappear past the trees. Her eyes are drawn past Kíli, past his continued apologies and self-remonstrations, to the tree he had been climbing and the branch now lying broken across its roots, apparently not strong enough to hold the weight of a full-grown dwarf. “I must return to my home to see to this,” she says again, stronger this time, squeezing her eyes shut against the shattered tree branch and Kíli’s sincere brown eyes so very close, his large hands curled around hers…

“What?! No!” Kíli squawks.

“I must apologize for my reckless behavior, Prince Kíli,” she goes on, still not meeting his gaze. She reaches to begin unbuckling her belt one-handed, her fingers weak and unsteady. This level of bleeding doesn’t call for a tourniquet, but she ought to still put pressure on it, and secure the shaft against jostling on the journey home... “This never would have happened if—”

“Why are you apologizing?!” Kíli interrupts her, and she finally looks at him again. “ _I_ shot _you!_ ”

“And we’ve a healer of our own right here at Netherfield,” Bofur says from behind Kíli, wringing his hat in his hands as he looks down at the two of them, “much closer than going all the way across Hobbiton.”

She looks back and forth between them for a moment, at last letting her gaze settle on Kíli. “Would your family not object to that?” she asks, hissing in a breath through her teeth as another wave of pain spreads outward from her leg. “An elf intruding in their home?”

Kíli is silent for several seconds, his expression suddenly more sober and serious than Tauriel has ever yet seen it. He glances back at Bofur over his shoulder, and the two exchange a long look, the other dwarf's brows raised as if to ask that very question. “No,” the prince says at last, squaring his jaw and looking at Tauriel once more, “they won’t.”

Bofur’s face lights up with a wide, slow-spreading grin. “If you're sure, laddie.”

“I’m sure,” Kíli says, giving a decisive nod, before meeting Tauriel’s gaze again. “As long as you’re alright with this?”

“If you trust this healer, then…” she begins automatically, but trails off, realizing what she was about to say. “It’s fine,” is all she says instead, nodding and starting to push to her feet once more.

“Nah nah nah, none of that now,” Bofur chides, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder to push her down again. “No sense straining your injury when we’re both perfectly capable of carrying you.” He and Kíli move to crouch a little behind her, and a look over her shoulder reveals them grasping each other's forearms to create a sturdy, square seat between them. “Alright, up you go,” Bofur grins at her, though his face is still pale with his earlier worry.

Tauriel nods once, taking a breath and using her hands and her good leg to push herself up and back, lifting just enough to seat herself across their arms. She steadies herself on their shoulders as they stand, gritting her teeth against the pain that slithers up her leg at the change in position. She had almost feared the difference in their races’ heights would leave her feet still dragging across the ground, but she has underestimated the dwarves, who easily hoist her up to nearly their shoulders, as if she weighs nothing at all.

They leave the weaponry and the remains of their picnic abandoned on the ground behind them, though Bofur assures Tauriel that he’ll come back to collect it all later, after the healer’s seen to her. It’s better than walking on her own, of course, but it’s still slow going, partially due to the fact that the dwarves’ legs are shorter than an elf’s, but even more, she suspects, because of how carefully they’re moving. Kíli especially seems to be picking his way across the forest floor, his jaw clenching and brows furrowing every time Tauriel hisses in pain.

“Sorry,” Kíli says, after another lump in the ground jostles her.

“As much as I—” She winces, tries to relax the muscles in her leg. “— _appreciate_ your concern… I don’t think there’s anything we can do about the uneven ground.”

They break through the edge of the trees then, the wide meadows for which Netherfield is named spreading out before them, and the dwarves pause a moment to adjust their grip on each other’s arms. “Aye, there’s no sense worrying over much now,” Bofur adds from her other side. “We’re making good time, and Óin’ll be all prepped and waitin’ when we get there.”

“Not good enough,” Kíli growls. “Netherfield is still miles away!”

“If you know of any faster method—” Tauriel starts, and then breaks off with a gasp as her calf seizes again.

“Actually,” is all Kíli says, and then suddenly Tauriel is no longer balanced between the two dwarves but instead scooped up into Kíli’s arms alone. Bofur gives a startled shout from behind them as Kíli takes off at a sprint, and then they are _flying!_

Not truly flying, of course, not like the ravens that wheel and caw overhead, but very nearly as fast as Tauriel can run on her own, faster than she could ever imagine moving now, wounded as she is. Kíli’s arms curl around her, careful as ever of the wound in her leg, his breath loud in her ear as he pounds through the tall grasses, his steps somehow smoother and more sure now than when he was trying to be so steady before. Netherfield comes into view in what feels like a matter of moments, the ground passing in a blur beneath them, and Tauriel feels Kíli’s chest expand against her side as he draws in a deep breath.

“GET ÓIN!” Kíli bellows, not breaking stride for a moment even as Tauriel startles in his arms at the sudden shout.

“Right here, lad,” a grey-haired dwarf calls back to him from the open front door of the smial. There’s a small crowd of dwarves awaiting them, clustered around the entrance, some holding fresh bandages and other supplies, and some with their sleeves rolled up, looking like they’ve spent the day working outdoors. Kíli passes through their midst without a word, slowing just enough to maneuver the two of them sideways through the door and into a small sitting room at the front of the hobbithole.

“That was… certainly faster,” Tauriel comments, arms still locked tight around Kíli’s shoulders as he lowers her onto one of the squat couches in the parlor.

“We dwarves are natural sprinters,” Kíli grins down at her. “Very dangerous over short distances.”

“You seem to do just fine with long-distance,” she replies, clenching her jaw as she attempts to find a comfortable angle at which to prop her leg against the floor.

Several of the other dwarves have followed them into the room, with the older one who had answered Kíli’s call in the lead, all of them frowning at Tauriel and exchanging troubled looks. Bofur brings up the rear, having finally caught up with them, and he looks awfully worried as he glances around at the others, and then back the way they came. She braces herself for their comments, for questions about whether an elf of the Greenwood is worth their time and resources, whether it’s proper for one of their princes to be fraternizing with an outsider like her, whether this is going to turn into an international incident… For a moment the silence is overwhelming, and Tauriel can barely breathe.

Óin looks at her, looks at Kíli, and then looks down at the arrow protruding from Tauriel’s leg. “Well,” he growls, “Kíli, sharp objects, and a pretty girl. Suppose it was only a matter of time.” And then he begins barking orders to the others around him and comes to kneel on the floor beside Tauriel’s leg so that he can peer at her wound while the rest scurry off to do his bidding.

“It— it was an accident,” Kíli sputters, his face bright red once more.

“I should hope so,” the healer retorts, “else your aim is getting steadily worse.”

“I was on a tree branch and I fell and—”

“I would leave _that_ detail out when you tell your mother and uncle about this. And trust me, laddie, _you_ will be the one telling them, ‘tisn’t none of my business.”

“Speaking of,” Bofur hisses, jerking his head back towards the front of the smial, just before a shadow falls across the doorway.

Lady Dís sweeps into the room, flanked by two of the other elderly dwarves, all them dressed for riding and looking as if they have rushed to return home, hair and furs wind-blown and tousled. The dwarf princess stares imperiously down at Tauriel, making Tauriel shrink back into the sofa, half-wishing the earth would open up and swallow her to save her from this situation. The moment passes, though, and Lady Dís turns her icy gaze on her son, her voice low and dangerous when she addresses him:

“ _This_ is who you've been spending your days with?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul words
> 
> Mim’amralê – my little love  
> Targu Mahal – Mahal’s beard  
> Ubsat – healer (the equivalent of yelling “MEDIC!”)


	6. The Elf in the Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘The elf in the room’ is the literal translation of a Dwarven phrase that refers to an issue of which all present are acutely aware, yet that no one wishes to directly address or even acknowledge, usually because it comes with a certain element of awkwardness or impropriety that may be exacerbated through the discussion of such. Common usage is, notably, entirely metaphorical, and does not refer to a literal elf surrounded by dwarves in a small, enclosed space._
> 
> -Excerpt from _Dwarven Idioms_ , Volume Twelve of _A Survey of Dwarven Culture_ , from the library of Elrond Half-Elven, Lord of Rivendell

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

The first thing Kíli blurts out when Dís grabs his ear and drags him off into the hallway is, “She doesn’t know, don’t say anything!”

Dís glares at him. At least he’s had the sense to start this conversation in Khuzdul so the elf can’t understand them.

The elf.

His One.

Her son’s soulmate is an elf. Mahal help them all.

“She’s not the only one you’ve kept in the dark, son of mine,” Dís growls, releasing him in favor of plucking her gloves off of her hands. In the parlor, Óin pulls Ori in to assist him, the two of them easing the elf’s boot from her foot before Óin splits her trouser leg from the ankle to above her knee so that he can properly see the wound.

“Fíli said I shouldn’t rush her,” Kíli replies sulkily, rubbing at his ear.

“Oh, so your brother knew the identity – and the _race_ – of your One, but you felt it was perfectly fine to lie to your mother about it?”

Kíli winces, then jumps when Óin calls his name from the other room.

“I need your quiver, and whatever ye’ve got left in it,” the healer barks in Westron, and then, when Kíli slips the quiver from his back and makes as if to simply chuck it across the room, “No, don’t throw it, ya daft lump of coal!”

Kíli glances back at her and Dís nods, sighing and allowing him to walk his quiver of arrows over to the healer. Presumably, Óin will use one of the remaining arrows as a guide when he extracts the ironhead from within the elf’s leg, ensuring he doesn’t leave any pieces behind to rot. After handing the arrows over, though, her son just stands there, wringing his hands in front of him as he watches Óin and Ori work. The elf looks up at him, wincing yet at least attempting to smile through her pain, as Óin snaps at Ori to keep his mind on the task at hand.

Dís clears her throat, loudly, and Kíli jumps and turns back around, hunching his shoulders as he shuffles back over to her like a scolded pup.The elf’s eyes follow him every step of the way.

Dís sighs. “How did this happen, Kíli?” she asks, still in Khuzdul, and then, at his suddenly defiant look, she goes on: “You’re a master bowman, what could have possibly led to your _shooting_ one of your companions? Do we need to have a conversation about weapons safety? I asked your brother if he was being safe, but I didn’t think I needed to ask _you_ the same thing!”

Kíli pulls a face at the mention of his brother, and Dís is gratified to see that he’s at least momentarily distracted by the unintended double-entendre. She hadn’t meant the question the way he had seemed to interpret it initially: how did _this_ happen, what did he do to cause it, how could he have possibly ended up with an _elf_ for his One? Dís would never ask such a thing, especially not of one of her own children. A dwarf does not choose their One; they are made for each other, shaped by the Maker’s own hands in order to best fulfill each other’s lives.

 _Why_ this has happened is another matter entirely, of course, but it is a question Dís will be taking up with Mahal during her own private contemplation.

“And on that note,” Dís goes on, pulling herself from her thoughts, “should I expect an announcement of future grandchildren before the summer is out?”

Kíli freezes, his face flaming red as he stares at her. “N-no! Not— Not yet!” he chokes out.

The relief that washes through Dís is followed quickly by shame: _not yet_ is right. Not _never_. No matter what she thinks, no matter how violent her gut reaction may be against opening their home, their family, their _lives_ to an elf – she is a part of Kíli’s life now. And how big a part she plays will be up to the elf and Kíli, not Dís or anyone else.

As if summoned by their conversation, there’s a ruckus at the front door, and a moment later her elder child comes tumbling in through the foyer, pushing past Bofur, Balin, and Dori into the hall where Dís and Kíli stand.

“I heard the Ravens!” Fíli gasps out, turning wide eyes on his brother. Bifur comes in behind him at a more sedate pace and draws to a halt with the other guards, turning to exchange signed greetings with them. Dís uses the moment to look Fíli over, taking in his rumpled clothing, the random, meaningless plaits slowly falling out of his hair, and the little white and yellow flowers stuck throughout his hair and beard and behind his ears. “They were calling for the healer,” Fíli says, frowning at Kíli. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“The healer wasn’t for me,” Kíli mumbles, hanging his head, and Fíli finally looks around and spots the elf through the open archway of the sitting room. Dís follows her sons’ gazes, noting Ori watching them and no doubt listening in on their conversation, as Balin and Dori and Bifur are too. This a momentous occasion, after all, the revelation, even if accidental, of Kíli’s One, and all its details will need to be recorded for posterity.

And there’s that thought again, _posterity_. By the Maker, her Kíli has only barely come of age, she should not have to think about grandchildren yet…

Half-elven grandchildren, no less.

“Stop daydreaming about what you’re going to write and keep pressure on that wound!” Óin snarls at Ori, making Dís jump along with the young dwarf. “It’ll be a terrible story if she dies because the scribe _let her bleed out!_ ”

“I hardly think this will be a tale worth telling,” the elf says, her voice low and breathless as sweat beads on her forehead above her slender, knit brows. “Or that I am in any such danger.”

Beside Dís, Kíli gives a small, pathetic whimper at his One’s obvious pain.

“What happened?!” Fíli hisses, rounding on his brother again and switching into Khuzdul. “You were supposed to _woo_ her, not shoot her!”

“I was!” Kíli protests. “I mean— It was an accident!”

“More to the point,” Dís drawls, breaking through their squabbling, “why did the two of you think it was wise to hide this from me for the last _two weeks?_ ”

Kíli shuffles his feet guiltily, but Fíli very visibly steels himself. “It’s obviously a delicate matter, Mother,” he says, squaring his shoulders and slipping easily into the diplomatic training that’s been drilled into him since birth. Dís would be proud if he wasn’t trying to use this training on _her_. “Not only is she an outsider and sworn to the service of another kingdom, but her race of course carries with it a myriad of complicated political implications. We thought it best to ease you and Uncle into the idea, and ideally to introduce you to her one at a time instead of—”

Dís holds up a hand, squeezing her eyes shut, and Fíli stops. “Perhaps you had good reason,” she concedes, looking at him once more, “perhaps not. But either way, Fíli, I cannot speak to you while you have flowers sticking out of your moustache.”

Kíli snickers and Fíli shoots him a glare, but begins wiping the petals and leaves and pollen from his face and straightening his hair and clothes.

That her sons were aware of what they were doing – that they were knowingly _lying_ to their mother, and about something as important as this! – does not ease Dís’s mind, though, she must admit, their reasoning is at least somewhat sound. There is no question that the identity of Kíli’s One is quite a lot for any of them to accept. Her own reaction has been ample evidence of this. And perhaps it would have been better had her boys been able to follow through on their plan as Fíli had suggested it: to explain first, to ease them into it, to meet Kíli’s elf one at a time instead of springing her on them like this. They might have even succeeded, had it not been for Kíli’s own recklessness today.

Dís isn’t certain that there is any possible scenario in which she might feel differently than she does now, or that there is any amount of explaining or sugar-coating that could have provided enough comfort for her to happily welcome an elf of the Mirkwood into her family. But, she supposes, she can perhaps credit Fíli and Kíli for their intentions, if not their execution.

And, she thinks, as the sound of hurrying footsteps echoes from the front of the smial once more, perhaps she can help to soften the blow for the rest of the Company, now that she is over her own initial shock. Just in time, too, as her brother comes rushing around the corner, looking wild-eyed and harried.

“What’s happened?!” Thorin demands. “Is Kíli alright?! I tried to get back here as fast as I could when I heard the Ravens, but I kept getting turned around, Magnetic West never seemed to be where I expected it to be!”

“Magentic what now?” Balin says, frowning at their king as he passes, but Thorin pays him no mind as he strides down the hall towards Dís and her sons.

“Everyone’s fine, Thorin,” Dís says, sighing at how frantic he is.

“Then what were the Ravens yelling about?!” Thorin goes on, looking each of his nephews up and down for good measure before glancing through the doorway into the sitting room – and then freezing at the sight before him.

“Ye’ll have to stay off of it for a good long while,” Óin is telling the elf in his usual curt manner. “Lucky we’ve got plenty of spare rooms here.”

“I need only a crutch in order to return home,” the elf says, and Óin jerks his gaze up to glare at her.

“What kind of healer do you take me for?!” he demands. “As if I’d send you off on your own to care for yourself, lame as you are!”

“I… would not wish to impose,” she murmurs in response, and seems to shrink further into the sofa when her eyes flick over to find Dís and Thorin watching her. “And my kind do tend to heal quickly.”

“So it may be slightly _less_ of a while, then,” Óin retorts as he returns to his work, “but still a while, so don’t you get any ideas, lassie, ye’re not going anywhere. And it’s no use arguing, I’m deaf in that ear,” he adds, gesturing to the side of his face that’s been nearest the elf all this time.

Thorin finally turns back to Dís, his eyes no less wild than before and now quite a bit more incensed, the question clear in his gaze.

“Everything’s. Fine,” Dís repeats, a warning in her tone. It is far from surprising that Óin would insist on keeping an eye on the only real patient he’s seen since arriving here – though it means they must all be prepared to spend the next day or even several with an elf amongst them.

More than a few days, in fact. The rest of their lives, quite possibly.

“Boys,” she says, turning to her sons again. Thorin follows her gaze, and Fíli and Kíli both pale a little before him. “Why don’t you explain to your uncle what we were just discussing? I’m going to see to our _guest_ ,” she adds, exchanging another meaningful look with her brother.

Thorin frowns but gives a small nod, straightening his shoulders and taking a calming breath before turning to Kíli once more, and Dís is satisfied that her message was clear. They’re on the same page again at last, after weeks of seemingly endless arguments and irritation. She knows Thorin will do what he can to help manage this situation, that he’ll put Kíli’s needs ahead of his own prejudices.

Stepping away from her immediate family, Dís approaches the cluster of other dwarves waiting and watching in the hallway with them. “Bifur, Bofur,” she says, and her sons’ two guards snap to attention, awaiting her orders. “We’re going to need a bed, one large enough for an elf.”

“Right away, yer ladyship,” Bofur answers, grinning and popping off a jaunty salute before turning to hurry away into the depths of the hobbithole, his cousin close on his heels.

“Balin, Dori,” Dís says next, turning to her own guard and advisor next. “See that her room is comfortable, the best we have. She is our honored guest,” she says, casting a wary glance back towards the sitting room and the elf within it, “for better or for worse.”

 

* * *

 

Someone is tapping at his window.

This is low even for Lobelia, he thinks, still blinking the sleep from his eyes. To disturb another hobbit’s first breakfast, and at such an hour of the morning! Oh, she has no shame…

It is not, in fact, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins at his kitchen window, not unless she has been turned into an enormous, sinister-looking, black bird.

The raven regards him through the window with one big, beady eye, and then leans down to rap its beak against the glass just next to the latch, before straightening to glare at Bilbo again, as if demanding to be let inside. Numbly, he obliges, and the creature bursts into his kitchen in a flurry of dark feathers to perch on the back of one of his antique chairs.

“Baggins!” the bird squawks.

Bilbo blinks at it. “What?”

The creature emits a low, croaking growl and thrusts one leg out towards Bilbo. It takes him a moment to recognize the strip of paper wrapped around the bird’s leg for what it is, and he hesitantly reaches for the shiny silver clip secured around it, wary of the raven’s talons and sharp beak. The bird doesn’t move until Bilbo has the message free, and then only to resettle its weight evenly on both feet, cocking its head to look up at Bilbo with an air of impatient expectation once more.

“Er… thank you?” Bilbo hazards.

The bird huffs, ruffling its feathers up around its neck, and promptly turns to hop onto the table where Bilbo’s breakfast spread awaits.

“Hey—!”

He lunges to try to save his meal, but the raven has already dunked one of Bilbo’s sweet rolls into his tea and swallowed the soggy mess down whole. It flaps up off the table to avoid his swatting hands, making for the open window with a caw of “Weak coffee, weak coffee!”

“Well!” Bilbo glares after it, and then glares more at the feathers settling on top of his eggs and strawberry tarts. He gives it up as a lost cause and, grumbling, finally turns his attention to the note in his hands.

> _My dearest Bilbo,_
> 
> _I find myself unable to meet you for our scheduled lunch today, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to a minor mishap while out shooting yesterday. I have been well seen to here at Netherfield, and my kind hosts will not hear of my returning home ‘til I am better, which I hope will be only a few days, a week at the most perhaps. They insist also on my seeing their healer, a Mister Óin – therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having ordered healing herbs and supplies from town for me – and excepting some blood loss and a slight limp, there is not much the matter with me._
> 
> _Yours as ever,_
> 
> _Tauriel_

Barely an hour later finds Bilbo dressed and stomping through the fields southwest of town, two traveling packs slung across his back as the hump of the Netherfield smial comes into view ahead of him. He speeds up, his hands balling into fists at his sides, dust kicking up around him as he rehearses his demands once again in his head: that he will not, under any circumstances, be prevented from seeing Tauriel, that they have no right to hold her here against her will, that not even an entire army of dwarves shall keep him from his friend at a time like this!

How dare they, how _dare_ they, and after Bilbo had thought they were becoming such friends! But no, instead these _dwarves_ have not only allowed Tauriel to come to harm but now will not even allow her to _leave!_

“How _dare they,_ ” he hisses again, under his breath, just as he breaks through the last of the long grass – and nearly runs right into a broad, dwarven chest on the other side.

Bilbo scrambles back several steps, instinct drawing his fists up in front of him, ready to defend himself from an oncoming attack or to respond with the first of several knives lining the inside of his jacket. Perhaps even more than mere instinct, he thinks, seeing as the dwarf before him is none other than Thorin Oakenshield, King Under Arsehole Mountain.

 _Combat is not the way to deal with irritating neighbors, mellon nin,_ he can hear Tauriel telling him on numerous occasions, a smile in her voice as Bilbo whinged and complained and insisted that maybe _just this time_ a little bloodshed would do the nosy gossips around town some good.

She’s right, of course, but still there’s a part of Bilbo that is sorely tempted as the dwarf blinks down at him. The great tall oaf hasn’t even removed his hands from where they’re clasped behind his back, his stance relaxed, as if he is only out on a calming morning walk, with no chance of encountering any sort of meaningful threat. It would certainly serve him right to suddenly have a face full of angry hobbit blade!

But now is not the time. He forces himself to relax, dropping his hands and straightening his shoulders as he meets the dwarf’s gaze. “Mister Oakenshield,” Bilbo greets him coolly. “I have come seeking my friend, Tauriel.”

“The elf?” the dwarf king demands, frowning down at Bilbo in apparent bewilderment. And then he really scowls, though not at Bilbo this time, his gaze instead flicking around to the fields, the sheep, the Water, and finally up to the sun in the sky, almost as if he has only just noticed its presence. And as if that presence has deeply displeased him, though Bilbo rather suspects that is his default reaction to everything and everyone he meets.

“Yes, the elf,” Bilbo snaps in return, shifting his packs on his shoulders. “She sent me a note this morning saying she was being held here.”

Oakenshield’s eyes narrow as they return to Bilbo’s face, his thick, dark brows somehow lowering even further. “I don’t know what you’ve heard—” he starts, but Bilbo cuts him off.

“I heard she’d been shot and then carried off by _dwarves!_ ” He takes a breath, finds he has to work hard to compose himself again. “Would you be so kind as to take me to her?” he asks, forcing his tone back to politeness even through his clenched teeth.

The dwarf purses his lips, then after a moment answers, “Fine,” before turning to sweep back towards the smial. “Come along,” he barks over one shoulder, apparently expecting Bilbo to just follow behind him like an obedient cow.

Bilbo scowls at his back, but can do nothing but hurry to catch up.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo finds Netherfield in a state of utter chaos by hobbit standards: the front room furnishings caked with mud scraped from the dwarves’ heavy, steel-toed boots, the closets and side-rooms he passes stuffed full of weapons and furs and armor, almost as if they expect an attack at any moment. Oakenshield leads him through the smial’s winding hallways with hardly a glance back to make sure Bilbo is still with him, and glares thunderously at any of the others who appear in doorways to gawp at their passing. One dwarf – the big bald one, a Mister Dwalin, or so Fíli and Kíli had identified him when trying to list out all the names of their compatriots in such a way that he and Tauriel might remember them – watches Bilbo with an appraising look, while the smaller, elaborately-coiffed ginger beside him outright _leers_ at Bilbo, and then at Mister Oakenshield, drawing a sharp word in the dwarvish tongue from the king before they are past.

The only person for whom His Royal Arsery actually stops is his sister, Princess Dís, when she comes round a bend in the hall towards them.

“What’s this?” she asks, blessedly seeming to realize that it is more polite to converse in the common tongue so that _everyone_ can understand. She glances beyond her brother at Bilbo, brows quirking curiously as she looks him over.

“He’s here to see the elf,” Oakenshield grunts.

Princess Dís squints up at him. “ _Lady Tauriel_ ’s room is back that way,” she says, jerking her chin in the direction whence they’ve just come. When Mister Oakenshield only frowns and looks around, as if lost in his own house, she sighs expansively and shoulders past him, approaching Bilbo with a genial smile. “It’s this way,” she says, nodding back down the hallway as she sets off once more, though at a much more sedate pace than the one her brother had set. The king, for his part, follows behind them rather sulkily. “So,” the princess says after a moment, turning down a corridor her brother had strode right past, “you must be the famous Mister Baggins. My sons have told me much about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” Bilbo responds, hoping his smile doesn’t look too very much like he’s baring his teeth. His heart is still pounding, the adrenaline from Tauriel’s note and the subsequent rush over here still coursing through his veins – one part of him even whispers that these dwarves are leading him about in circles, putting on a friendly face even as they have no intention of allowing him to ever see Tauriel, but he shakes that thought away and forces himself to take a calming breath. “Forgive me, your highness,” he tries again. “Your sons are both delightful lads. I’m afraid I’m just a bit… _distraught_ at hearing of Tauriel’s injury.”

“Of course,” Princess Dís nods, then smiles wryly down at him. “Truthfully, I’m impressed at your restraint. Had it been one of my family injured while amongst strangers, I think I’d have charged in fully armed, ready to fight any who stood between me and them. Ah, here we are.”

Bilbo shifts his weight uncomfortably as they draw to a halt, feeling every one of the knives stashed in the lining of his jacket. He’d left Sting at home, but only because a sword at one’s hip tends to be a bit obvious, and the element of surprise has always been one of Bilbo’s greatest assets.

Princess Dís knocks on the partially ajar door, from beyond which drift several voices, Tauriel’s among them, before pushing it further open. “You have a visitor,” she says, addressing Tauriel, as Bilbo steps into the room after her.

“Bilbo!” Tauriel cries, smiling, followed by a hearty, “Mister Boggins!” from one dwarven prince and, “Baggins, Kíli, Baggins,” from the other.

“Prince Fíli, Prince Kíli,” Bilbo greets them, nodding to each in turn. Kíli sits just next to the bed with a breakfast tray over his lap, while his brother is at the writing desk across the room, Fíli’s chair turned round so that he is facing the other two with his own meal behind him on the desktop. Tauriel is set up in the center of the room on a surprisingly large bed, considering everything else in the smial is hobbit-sized, with a breakfast tray of her own, her bandaged leg propped up on a pillow and her feet a little startlingly bare as she sits atop the blankets.

It’s not as though Bilbo’s never seen her so casual before – she always respectfully removes her boots when visiting his or any other hobbit’s home, to say nothing of the necessities of washing or tending to each other’s wounds when out on their adventures – but it speaks to just how perfectly at ease she apparently is here. And that’s hardly unexpected, really, Bilbo mentally chastises himself: were there truly anything to worry over here, Tauriel would be more than capable of fighting her way out, even with an injury, dwarven army or no. The two of them have certainly been in tougher spots than being made to stay over by particularly insistent neighbors, after all.

Still, this whole mess has caused him far more of a headache than he’d like, especially on an empty stomach. He shakes himself out of his thoughts, hefting the larger of the two bags on his back. “Tauriel, I’ve brought you your things from Ithil Galad.”

“You got my note, then,” Tauriel says sheepishly, no doubt reading all of Bilbo’s thoughts simply from the look on his face.

“I did indeed,” Bilbo replies, just a touch sourly.

“You needn’t have hurried over here,” Tauriel starts to say.

“We have been taking very good care of her, I assure you,” Princess Dís comments mildly from beside Bilbo.

“And it’s really wonderful having her here!” Prince Kíli adds, then, when everyone turns to stare at him, he hunches his shoulders defensively, his face flushing red. “Er— I mean— It’s not wonderful that she was _shot_ – much less shot by _me_ – but it’s still nice that she’s _here_ while she recovers...”

Bilbo is saved from having to try to formulate a reply to that when his stomach chooses that very moment to grumble loudly, reminding him and everyone else within a five mile radius that he skipped first breakfast in his rush to get over to Tauriel’s house and then here. “Excuse me,” he winces, “I’m afraid I traded my breakfast away to the bird who brought this whole situation to my attention.”

“Ah. That would Ushmaz,” Princess Dís tells him with a sigh. “She can be quite… pushy, especially when it comes to payment for her services. Not to worry, though, we’ve only just finished breakfast here, and we’ve plenty to go around if you’d like some.”

“Oh, that… that would be lovely,” Bilbo replies, a touch bemused. He has not, generally speaking, ever heard dwarves described as the most hospitable of races, far more likely to be seen as avaricious and secretive by the other peoples with whom Bilbo has come into contact over the years. Perhaps there is not complete truth to such views – or perhaps Princess Dís is just an especially genteel example of her culture, and has raised her sons to be likewise, he must allow, with a glance back at the two princes. Some of his neighbors would no doubt scoff and insist that feeding one’s guests is the bare minimum of a host’s duties, and should not have been left this long since Bilbo first walked through their door, but at the moment Bilbo is more of a mind to simply appreciate the offer of a hot meal for what it is.

Seeing Tauriel as relaxed and happy as she is has made a world of difference in Bilbo’s mood, it would seem.

The princess gives him a small, regal nod and then turns her gaze on her sons. “Boys,” she says, and Fíli and Kíli both straighten in their seats, looking ready to hop to and do her bidding, “why don’t you go make up a tray for Mister Baggins here? And see that those dishes make it in with the rest of the washing,” she adds sternly, casting a glance at each of their meals, both nearly gone by now.

“Yes, Amad,” they chorus, rising from their seats on either side of the room and shuffling out the door past their mother, their trays in hand, though Kíli does send Tauriel a lingering look from over his shoulder. Tauriel smiles at him, and he beams in return before disappearing into the hallway.

“Well,” Princess Dís says, clasping her hands in front of her, “we’ll leave the two of you for the time being, so that you may dress and refresh yourselves. One of the boys will be back in a short while with your food, Mister Baggins,” she says, smiling graciously down at him. She steps back out into the corridor, adding, “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

When she steps away, Bilbo is left standing by the door and, suddenly, once more facing her far _less_ welcoming or hospitable brother. Bilbo had quite forgotten he was even there until this moment, but there Thorin Oakenshield is, leaning back against the wall opposite Tauriel’s open bedroom door, his eyes startling blue as he silently regards Bilbo.

Bilbo finds himself momentarily caught, reminded suddenly of the near-tangible weight of that gaze on the back of his neck, of the heat that followed with it the night of the Ashseed festival and of their meeting in the marketplace yesterday, of feeling, for one inexplicable moment, as if someone had called his name, just beyond the range of his hearing, as if something or someone were urging him to just turn around and _look—_

“ _Thorin_ ,” Dís’s voice comes from a few paces down the hall, startling them both out of their staring contest, and the king straightens up, frowning to himself as if in confusion before casting one last glower back at Bilbo as he moves to follow his sister.

Bilbo closes the door on him rather than even expend the effort of glaring back.

He shakes himself, wiping his hands down his front as he turns back to face Tauriel where she sits on the bed. “So,” he says, leveling a sardonic look at his friend and very deliberately putting the whole mess of dwarves from his mind, “you got shot.”

Tauriel purses her lips. “A bit.”

“By a _dwarf!_ ”

“Kíli is a very accomplished archer,” Tauriel says primly, looking away to remove the breakfast tray from over her lap.

“Well, yes, I suppose he would have to be to land a hit on a wood elf such as yourself,” Bilbo agrees, finally shrugging off the two packs from his shoulders. “Or a very, very bad one,” he adds, straightening his waistcoat.

“It was purely an accident,” Tauriel replies mildly, though she is smiling as she swings her legs down over the edge of the bed and leans forward to grasp the strap of the larger bag, “of both our making.”

“Here— Don’t strain yourself, my dear.” Bilbo brings the bags over to her and sets them on the bed next to her instead of allowing her to bend down and pull them up herself.

“My arms are still perfectly functional, Bilbo,” she laughs, opening the larger of the two bags. “Thank you again for bringing this,” she adds, quieter. “They really have taken good care of me here, but it will be very nice to put on fresh clothes.”

“It was no trouble at all,” Bilbo responds, shaking his head as he seats himself on the bed next to her and pulls the second, smaller bag into his own lap. The bed is still of a traditional hobbitish height, and what they would usually consider wide enough for a couple of small hobbits or one very wide hobbit, just… longer. He peers down at the wood panels of the bedframe, and finds them to be two completely differently types and carved in different styles, joined together midway down the length of the bed. “Did they… Did they _build you a bed?!_ ” he asks, turning wide eyes up at Tauriel once more.

“Yes,” she answers, blushing a little. “And stitched the two mattresses together end-to-end so that they are one piece, without even the slightest dip or gap where they meet. These dwarves are… very industrious, and efficient, it seems, when they have a task before them.”

“Indeed,” Bilbo marvels, looking down at the bedframe once more and the way the two lengths of wood are fitted together, like puzzle pieces created for each other rather than two completely disparate units. He shakes himself again, turning back to Tauriel and their travel bags. The larger is from Tauriel’s house, carefully packed and stashed in the cupboard nearest the front door of her house, while the smaller one is his own, each holding all the essentials they might need to run headlong out into the wilds without pausing to pack. For Bilbo, it’s more a convenience to be able to simply pick up and leave whenever the fancy strikes him, but there have been a few times over the years when such a thing has actually been a necessity, when the Rangers have called suddenly for a little extra help or when the winter has been particularly bad in the northernmost reaches of the Shire…

He brushes that thought aside, along with the echoing memories of howls in the night, of pitchforks and spades clashing against crude orcish weaponry. Such a thing hasn’t happened here in nearly three decades, and it sha’n’t ever happen again, in all likelihood. Certainly not within Bilbo’s lifetime.

“The healer, Óin, thinks it will be at least a few days before I am well enough to return home,” Tauriel says as she unpacks her clean tunic and trousers, lifting them in front of her to shake the wrinkles from them. “And I am inclined to agree with him,” she sighs, turning to look at Bilbo again and then smiling down at his bag in his lap. “Do you intend to stay with me until then?”

“I can hardly leave you at the mercy of strangers, and certainly not when you cannot even get about on your own,” Bilbo replies, then adds wryly, “even if they have built you a bed.”

Tauriel laughs, looking away. “They have been exceedingly kind,” she says, “and Kíli and Bofur, and Fíli too, have all been good friends to me. But I am so very glad you came to me, Bilbo.” She smiles down at him again, and Bilbo can see the strain of the last day finally seeping out of her expression and from the line of her shoulders.

For all that the dwarves have looked after her admirably, Tauriel has never been terribly at ease while amongst those she does not know well. Bilbo is quite the opposite, growing not anxious as she does but rather irritated when forced to be around those he has known too well for too long, his many neighbors and relations chattering away around him the surest way to wear right through his already thin patience. Engaging with the many new people they have met on their various adventures is the easy part for him, whereas Tauriel requires some semblance of officiality – a discussion of city defenses or bowcraft or some such shared interest – in order to feel at ease in such circumstances.

They are, however, entirely the same in this one aspect: that they both take such solace from each other, the other’s presence making the demands of the hordes around them that much easier to bear.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he tells her, returning her soft smile, and sees her relax just a hair further.

And then a knock sounds at the door, followed by Kíli’s voice coming through the heavy wood, “Mister Boggins, I’ve got your breakfast here!”

“Well, not anywhere except out there,” Bilbo amends, drawing a laugh from Tauriel as he hops off the bed and makes his way toward the door. “Unless you need assistance dressing, of course,” he adds, turning back to grin at her as he walks the last few paces backward.

“No, thank you,” Tauriel sighs, rolling her eyes at him.

“I could send the healer in to you, if you like,” Bilbo goes on, “or perhaps Princess Dís? She is the only other lady here, it seems—”

“ _Go_ ,” Tauriel laughs, shaking her head, and Bilbo smirks at her one last time before slipping out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.

Kíli takes a surprised step backwards when Bilbo appears through the doorway, blinking down at him and holding a tray piled with food in front of his chest, and then looks over Bilbo’s head at the door. “We’re not going in…?”

“Not while Tauriel is dressing, no,” Bilbo replies, and doesn’t quite manage to smother his grin at the bright blush that overtakes the prince’s face at that.

“Oh— Of— Of course— I didn’t mean—”

“No, I know you didn’t, not to worry,” Bilbo assures him, snagging a slice of well-crisped bacon from off the tray in Kíli’s hands as he brushes past him. “Tell me, is this next room here furnished? Ah, good, this will do nicely,” he says, opening the bedroom door adjacent to Tauriel’s, just a little way further down the hall. He had half-expected to find the bed missing, cannibalized for the double-long one the dwarves had built for Tauriel, but they apparently got their materials from somewhere else, as the furniture in here is all still intact. “I’ll need some bed linens, of course, if you can spare them. I’ve got a light bedroll in here, if not,” he says, smiling and gesturing to the travel pack slung over his shoulder once more.

“Bed linens?” Kíli echoes, continuing to blink down at him in confusion.

“Yes, well, I’ll need to keep close by until Tauriel is well enough to return home,” he states matter-of-factly. It is entirely possible that the dwarves will decide he’s gone too far with this demand and will toss him out at any moment – but Kíli only nods.

“No, right, of course you should stay here. If Tauriel wants you here, then this is right where you ought to be. I know there’s supposed to be more sheets stored somewhere down this hallway,” he says, frowning as he glances back and forth down the corridor before seeming to remember the tray in his hands. “Oh, er— Did you want to eat in here? I could show you over to the dining room, or to the parlor where some of the others are right now? We could come back and make up your room later.”

“Oh… well,” Bilbo looks around at the room – bare as it is, it’s at least close to Tauriel, and has a door he can shut against any unwanted dwarves. It’s not that he’s ungrateful for all they’ve done for Tauriel over the past day, but he’s really not feeling terribly sociable just now. “Shouldn’t someone stay nearby in case Tauriel needs assistance with anything?”

“I’ll come check on her right after,” Kíli says, nodding enthusiastically. “Plus, Glóin rigged up a system of bells that’ll ring throughout the house if she pulls a cord by her bed, so we’ll know to go to her,” he adds, and then, at Bilbo’s shocked look, goes on, “It’s really a very simple setup, only took a little drilling through the walls and a bit of twine.”

“Drilling through the walls,” Bilbo echoes, feeling his brows rising towards his hairline. “Oh dear, you’d better hope the Old Took never catches wind of this. This smial has been in the family for ages!”

“We just made some small improvements, that’s all,” Kíli says with a shrug. “And anyway,” he continues, looking away with a small smile, “Tauriel has also insisted she is perfectly capable of getting around on the crutch Bifur made for her. I even offered to carry her again, but she refused…”

“Did she now,” Bilbo says, feeling a grin beginning to pull at the corners of his mouth. Tauriel didn’t mention anything about being toted around by a handsome, strong dwarf prince. What else might she have left out of her account of the previous day’s events?

Kíli nods, looking a little glum, before meeting Bilbo’s gaze again. “Anyway,” he says, smiling once more, “I know Am— er, Mother would like to properly meet you, Mister Boggins, since she’s heard so much about you from me and Fíli.”

Bilbo huffs a small sigh, shaking his head, and drops his bag at the end of the bed. “I wouldn’t dare disappoint your lady mother. Lead on,” he says, gesturing towards the open door, and Kíli smiles wide and turns to do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul Terms  
> Amad – Mother  
> Ushmaz – “Flatterer,” the raven who brought Tauriel’s note to Bag End
> 
> Sindarin Terms  
> Mellon nin – my friend


End file.
